Going Swimming
by Toriana
Summary: Suppose that Christine, despite her name, was raised to worship the old Norse gods, instead of being the spineless Christian milquetoast Leroux made her. And suppose that she met up with Erik, face to face, soon after coming to the Opera House at seven. How would a more confident Christine make the story change? Erik and Christine - Raoul devotees are advised to skip this one.
1. Chapter 1 - To The Lakeside

**Going Swimming**

_(I must admit – I am not yet sure where I want this story to travel to, but, I've had this basic premise in my head for weeks now – Suppose, just for fun, that instead of the Christian milquetoast Christine of the Leroux novel, Christine was raised to worship the Old Gods, Odin, Thor, Freya, and the rest of the pantheon? {Please note - there are __many__ versions of Asatru – I DO NOT know that my version is the "real way".}Meek and submissive is NOT part of this Asatru, in fact, the more skillfully you can fight, the more you are respected in this culture. Now, where there are warriors, there are scars, so it's pretty logical that a few (or even a lot) of scars would not be considered a disfiguration._

_Supposition # 2 – Suppose Christine, while still with her family, was used to swimming whenever and wherever possible, even when the water was not what we would call warm._

**Chapter 1 – To The Lakeside**

Christine Daae was only seven years old when her parents both died in a carriage accident in the suburbs of Paris. (They had been having a late supper with some friends of theirs, and had been walking back to their lodging when a runaway carriage had hit them just about straight on. Christine was being watched over by a friend of their friends, a Madame Giry, and had not been with them at the time.)

Left orphaned so young, and with not much in the way of family assets, after the funeral, Madame Giry did the only thing she could think of, and brought her into the ballet dormitories at the Opera Garnier, where she had recently been appointed Ballet Mistress (and where she and her daughter lived). It was that, or turn the poor child out to starve, and while Antoinette Giry could be harsh when needed, she wasn't THAT cold. Granted, Christine was a bit young to make this a career choice, but, what else was there to do, after all?

They started with a tour of the building. Seeing the stairway down to the subcellar near the horse stables, Christine asked, "What is downstairs, Madame?"

"Well, if you go down two floors, there is a lake,"

"A lake? Truly? May I see it?"

"No, little one, it is not safe. You might fall in. Now come, there is much more to see."

Christine held her peace, but inwardly scoffed at such a naive attitude. She had been swimming for years, water did not intimidate her in the least. Carefully marking the route in her head, she resolved to go check out this lake just as soon as she was free to do so.

It was about three days later, in the evening, that Christine actually managed to get the time free. And she snuck down five floors, change of clothes under her arm, to find a perfectly good, (if a little cold) lake right under her feet. /I can swim, and remember my family here, maybe even build an altar and worship the AllFather – since I don't think they would understand what I was doing in that "Chapel" with the angel picture that Madame showed me./ Accordingly, she slid into the water, near the stair, leaving her other clothes by the large pillar, and began her water routine, with kicks to loosen up her muscles.

The rhythmic splashing distracted Erik as he was working on his masterpiece (not that Don Juan Triumphant was anywhere NEAR completion,) but still, if someone was swimming near his lair, he'd better check it out. Taking off his shoes, socks, vest, and jacket, and the mask, since he couldn't swim in all that gear, he went out to see what was happening.

What he saw was a child, with darkish blonde hair, swimming strongly towards the bank which held his small boat, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was there. Reaching the dock, she pulled herself up, looking over the boat with a curious interest, but not touching anything. Then she sat down, to rest, or so it seemed, dangling her feet towards the water, looking back in the direction of the stairwell.

He hesitated, wondering if it would be better to say nothing, or scare her off, or continue to watch. In fact, she turned her head, looked at him, and gulped, slipping onto one knee, in an attitude resembling prayer.

She spoke, "Wow, AllFather Odin, the ravens really messed up your face when they took your eye. What do you wish of me, and can you tell me if Mama and Papa got to You safely?" All this came out in a rush, while Erik, stupefied by THIS reaction, just stared at her, not able to understand why she wasn't screaming. Or running.

"Child – who are you, and why are you here?" He finally managed to find his voice.

"Great Odin –" she spoke again, very softly.

/Odin? She thinks I'm a God? Is she insane, or have I finally slipped over the edge into madness? Wait, she's not speaking French, that's – Swedish, I think./ Erik had spent a little time in Sweden – not altogether voluntarily – on his way to Russia, but languages had always come easily to him. Switching languages, he asked again. "Who are you? What is your name? How did you come to be here?"

"Allfather, my name is Christine Daae. I am here because the Dance Mistress took me here after my parents died. I came here to swim, to keep my body limber and strong, as it should be."

"Child, I am NOT a God, not Odin. I am-"

"You are favored by him then, to have his looks – do you also have his traits? Are you a warrior and a bard?"

About to scoff, Erik was struck by the question. If he were honest with himself, he would have to say he was both. He could, and did, fight well and effectively, and he certainly had music in his head – "Well, yes, but –"

Christine was chattering again. "The Dance Mistress wants me to be a dancer – she says it will be a good thing to learn – and maybe it will, but I want to be a bard, like Papa. Can you, maybe, tell me how one becomes a bard? Is it hard? Does it take a long time?"

Erik was struck by the fact that she saw his face, full on, and had not screamed, not run, not fainted. "How old are you, Christine?" he asked, stalling for time so that his brain could get over the shock that this mere babe was treating him like a professor, not a monster.

"I am seven. If I cannot call you Odin, then what shall I call you?"

"Call me Erik. Come into my house, it is cold out here, and you are starting to shiver. But you must promise to tell no-one else about me being here."

"Well, alright." And Christine, who was secretly convinced that this WAS Odin, who, according to the tales, sometimes took another name to walk among men, went into the strange house on the lake, with the man known as Erik.

_(Chapter 1 and well begun – Please read and review, I could use a few ideas on where to go with this one.)_


	2. Chapter 2 - Erik At Home

**Chapter 2 – Erik At Home**

_(I'm usually a bit more prompt than this – but – my furnace went out JUST before a temperature drop of about 30+ degrees, and it's hard to type when your fingers are numb.)_

Erik turned to lead the way, utterly baffled by this child's lack of concern. Where was the hysterical shrieking? The fear? This was so out of the ordinary that he was struggling with how to react. Still, it was rather nice to have a guest, even if it was a seven-year old child guest.

Christine followed, eager to see what kind of place a God-on-Earth would live in. /This must be where he meets up with Erda, the Goddess of Earth, to make new Valkyria, there must be wars coming, so that he needs more warriors collected. Maybe they have collected Father already, Madame told me he died fighting the horses – but I probably shouldn't ask that!/ And, just because it seemed the thing to do, she began, softly, to sing a song that was part of the Norse rituals her father had been teaching her. (Her mother was not Asatru, which was WHY her first name was not traditionally Norse.)

Erik, with his keen ears, heard Christine singing, and, almost stopped in his tracks at the sound. /Such a clear voice for one so absurdly young – with some training and discipline, what a star she could make – providing her voice does not deteriorate as she matures – Hmmmm, I wonder -?/

Christine was turning in place, trying to absorb the sight fully. Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of candelabras – many of them with what appeared to be an apparatus of small mirrors magnifying the intensity of each candle flame, heavy dark plum-colored velvet drapes to keep the chill from the stone walls at bay (and to conceal several doors – but she could not yet know that), musical instruments of several types on most of the room's flat surfaces, a table with two chairs, another large chair that resembled a king's throne from a fairy tale, and a huge organ decorated with intricate carvings, along with a fairly large fireplace. Not to mention statues, paintings, and what appeared to be a writing table/workbench off to one side. She went over by the fireplace, warming (and drying) herself.

Erik observed his young guest, and then put a kettle onto the fire to make tea. (While he DID have wine in stock, it seemed inappropriate to him to serve that to someone not yet even a teenager.) "Tell me something about yourself," he coaxed.

"Well, Alf-Erik, I was born in Sweden originally. My father is – er, was Gustave Daae, the violinist. He did a concert in this Opera House about three weeks ago. That was why we came to this city."

Erik nodded, remembering the performance. He had admired the man's technique, observing from Box 5. "You said was, so I must conclude that he is now deceased?"

"Yes, Sir. He and my mother both died about two weeks ago,"

"And now Madame Giry has adopted you?"

"I guess so, she seems to feel that I am like a sister to her Meg, anyway. She says that Fate has made me hers, so I must learn to dance, since that is what Meg does."

"And do you mind that?"

"The practicing, no, it is rather like the exercises I did with my father – but – I want to sing. People have said I could be good at it, but I would need lessons, and Madame says that costs money, and we have – not enough of it."

Erik pondered this. "Singing is not easy, and it can take a long time- many years - to get really good at it. It may not seem like hard work, but it really is."

"I am not afraid of hard work, Alfa-Sir." Christine was having a hard time getting used to not calling Erik Allfather, she kept stumbling over her words.

"I could – show you how to sing properly – but, you would have to keep it a secret between us. You can't tell anyone, INCLUDING Madame Giry, or the deal is off. Do we have a bargain?"

"Yes, SIR! When and where?"

"Here, for two hours, at least to start with, every second week. On Monday night (Erik knew the training schedule, and Monday was the evening that the Ballet Corps had free), you come down here, I will fetch you over in my boat, and I will teach you singing. If you have to miss a week, for whatever reason, you are to leave a note saying why in Box 5. Deal?"

Christine didn't hesitate – such a bargain would probably never come her way again. "Yes, sir, Thank you, Sir. I will be here. But, Sir? May I swim down here at other times? And maybe build an altar? Please?"

"An altar? That we will have to see about – but – we will set up a schedule so that you may swim but I would like you to stay away from certain places near my house – and I would prefer to know when you will be doing so, since this lake can be treacherous to the unwary." /And I really would rather not have you trigger any of my water-traps – they're SO hard to reset./

Eventually they came to an agreement. Christine could swim on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, unless rehearsals ran till after 8PM – or there was a performance she was needed at – and every other Monday, she would come down to be tutored in voice. If she did well, they might amend the schedule to once a week later on. In turn, she would use all caution in coming down past the stable level, to avoid being observed, and would tell no-one at all about either her tutor, his house, OR her lessons until and unless Erik told her it was permitted for that person (and he would have final say) to know about him. If she needed to speak to him at another time – she would have to leave a note in Box 5 and await his reply.

Christine would get her altar – but she would have to decorate it herself – and Erik would choose the location for it. Christine had no intention of disobeying ANYTHING this man said – she was now convinced that – He WAS the Allfather, but, since he was in human form, he had no access to those memories - /Or else maybe he's hiding from his wife Frigg – anyway, he's Erik down here, whatever his name or title someplace else./ Anyway, she had a voice teacher – and he came for free – as long as she kept the bargain – and she would be a bard. Someday.


	3. Chapter 3 - Getting To Know You

**Chapter 3 – Getting To Know You**

_(Sorry for the delay, but the flu was making the rounds at my workplace, and my five day off vacation turned into a seven day recuperation – blah! OK, let's get the boilerplate out of the way, I own none of these characters, at least not unless ALW wants to deal (Can't ask Leroux – he's long since gone . . . .)_

Eventually Christine's life began to settle down into a routine. In the mornings there was ballet practice, then a break for lunch, then instruction on other subjects till dinnertime. Since she was too young to be in the actual performances yet, usually after dinner she had leisure to go pray (and swim) or go see her odd friend for a voice lesson (before long, it was scheduled for two or three times a week) – although sometimes, he was teaching her other things, or, (rarely), they might just talk. On one such occasion, they were at his small table drinking tea, and Erik noticed that she was stroking the red shawl that she had come down wearing, and asked her if there was something special about this particular scarf.

"Well, it's the last piece that my mother knitted for me before she died. I like to wear it sometimes and remember her. It would have been her birthday today, so I'm wearing it."

"Ah." Erik wasn't about to challenge THAT reason, and, really, what did it hurt to have her wearing red? It actually looked very pleasant against her skin. In an effort to change the subject, he said, "Will you tell me something about her?"

"Well, there is one memory – two summers ago we were staying at Perros, and Mama and I were walking by the shore, when the wind blew the scarf right into the water. I was about to go into the water, when this young blonde boy ran past me to go fetch it. He was rather gallant to do that, but, he couldn't swim back, so he rescued the scarf, but, MAMA had to dive in and rescue HIM! I still don't know if he was just gallant and silly, or showing off." Christine smiled a little at the memory.

Erik wasn't sure either. "And what was the name of this hapless youngling?"

"Raoul De Chagney. He claimed to be a Viscount. We played together that summer, when Mama and Papa would let him come over. He was – rather sweet – but stubborn." And then the talk turned to other things, but Erik put the discussion away in his head, to analyze later.

Later on that evening, Christine was talking to Sorelli. (Just now, probably because of her extreme youth, most of the ballet corps treated Christine as more like a mascot than a serious rival.) They were gossiping about Valeria, who had just lost her first real "admirer", and, since he was rich, and she had always been something of a stuck-up diva, none of the ballet rats had been inclined to think the relationship would last very long. "So you see, little one, how important it is not to let yourself get carried away by a man's poetic words and gestures. They'll promise you anything until they get what they want, but once they have it, just about all of them will drop you like week old fish. That's why you have to keep your heart out of it – oh, enjoy the attention, and the baubles, and the lovely words, but not one man in a thousand will keep his word. So keep those baubles, and build up a wardrobe and stash of money and jewelry, as fast as you dare, or you may wind up with nothing to show for all your troubles."

"Will Valeria come back here, to us?"

Sorelli shook her head, decisively. "Not possible, she was too careless. She can't dance with a baby inside her. And once it's born – well, just no. She won't be back. I just hope she had the sense to save for this day, since once you let a man get that close, not one in ten thousand will so much as admit it's his, much less help you support it, unless you managed to get a wedding ring from him first. The best you'll likely get is mistress status, and that means you will be supported only until he loses interest, and finds someone else. And remember this, little one, I've NEVER heard of a Nobleman marrying his mistress, not for the past fifty years or better. A merchant, once or twice, but never the higher class."

At this point Madame Giry came looking for the girls, it was time for practice. Besides, she would not have approved of someone so young as Christine hearing about what was inarguably such an adult situation. Not that Christine really understood what Valeria and her suitor had been doing to (and with) each other, but she would remember what Sorelli had said, later.

It would be almost five years before Christine would be anywhere near being an adult (She started menstruation at the age of thirteen.) At that point, Madame Giry sat her down for her "Now you are becoming a woman, you need to know this" lecture (by now, she'd told so many of the girls, it was pretty standard.)

Christine was dismayed at the prospect. "Do you mean that for the rest of my life, I'm going to be bleeding one week out of every four?"

Madame could understand the dismay, but facts were facts. "Unless you are pregnant, which I truly do not recommend unless you are married first, or you get very old, yes, you will bleed between your legs one week out of every month. Don't feel like it's only you, though. Every woman, unless she's really sick, really old, or pregnant, does the same thing."

"And how does one prevent pregnancy?"

"Well, the simple answer to that is to never be alone with a man unless you're married to him first, but – well, just don't let a man you're not married to touch you where the blood comes from with his bare skin and you should be pretty safe."

This statement just confused Christine. She resolved to ask her – Erik _ about it next time she saw him and see if he could clarify things, since he seemed to know just about everything else.

_Stay tuned for "The Facts Of life – Erik style" (Hmmm, not a bad title for Chapter 4) Meanwhile, please read and review._


	4. Chapter 4 The Facts Of Life - Erik Style

**Chapter 4 – The Facts of Life – Erik Style**

_(Let me state that my Erik is a blend of all the versions I've encountered to date (Mostly Kay, Leroux, and Compton-Myers – plus ALW (Movie, 25__th__ Anniversary and Webber's Mary Sue Also Known As "Love Never Dies") While I am __trying__ to get ahold of other video versions – I didn't really care much for the Lon Chaney, the Herbert Lom, The Robert Englund, The Dario Argentis, OR the Cartoon version, and the "Angel of Music" movie left me frothing at the mouth about its' flaws – what a waste of $10! Who else is there? Well, I'm trying to get ahold of the Charles Dance Miniseries, and Song at Midnight and Phantom Traveler are out unless I speak or at least read Mandarin Chinese, and I have 2 versions still on the to-be- watched pile – The Phantom Of 42__nd__ Street, and the Phantom of The Paradise. While there are still two or three other video versions, they're VERY hard to come by. (Anybody know where one can encounter a copy of Disney's Phantom of the Multiplex?) What I'm getting at is, yes, my Phantom DID make it to Persia, and out again, and we will eventually encounter the Daroga, but – that will come later._

Christine was uncharacteristically quiet when Erik poled the boat over to the dock the next day – which made him wary – Christine was not a quiet person once she had gotten used to him – unless she was unsure of how to ask something. Taking the figurative bull by the horns, he ventured, "You're awfully quiet today. Is something wrong?"

"Not WRONG, exactly, I just need some answers, and I – well " Christine took a deep breath and blurted it out. "Madame Giry says that now I am growing up that I must not be alone with a man I am not married to unless I want a baby, and does that mean I can't see you anymore?"

Erik nearly dropped the pole into the water at that last. The concept of being all alone – again – seemed like a horror to him. Christine did not know it, but she had become one of his two safety valves to the outer world. /How am I supposed to explain sex to you, little one, when I've never done it myself? But I guess I'll have to try, because I cannot be without you now./

"Come in, Christine, and I will try to explain." As Christine rose gracefully from the boat, Erik had a sudden flash/vision/premonition of what she would look like in a few more years, and felt an unfamiliar surge in his chest as his heart, which had up to now always been quiet in his chest, suddenly awakened and started saying /Mine!/ Then his common sense kicked in, and he heard his mind replying with, /Not quite yet – she's still too young. But once she's grown up a little. . . . ./

By now, Christine no longer gawked at Erik's interior decorating, so by the time Erik had gotten his thoughts in order, Christine was sitting at the table, giving Erik her full attention. Normally, he would have found this gratifying. Today, though . . . he wanted to sink into the floor, or, maybe, to really BE Odin – surely a (long-since married) God would be able to get the words right without an imminent panic attack –then he remembered and detoured briefly to the bookcase to grab his copy of the Kama Sutra that his one other friend, Nadir, had given him. Even though Christine could not read Persian, the illustrations would be easier than him trying to describe male anatomy verbally.

Opening the volume, Erik flipped through to the first (hand-painted) illustrated plate. This showed a couple – him on top of her – facing each other while both lying on the floor, with what looked like cushions between the floor and the woman's back. "When a man and his – chosen partner – wish to express their feelings to each other, this is the most common way to show it. There is a special part of a male anatomy" Erik was desperately TRYING to be scientific about his tone, and not managing it very well "located between a man's legs that fits into a similar – er – passage – in a woman's body. It is the direct route to where a child grows inside a woman, and part of the act of – er – expressing his liking is that the man places into that passage the seed needed for a woman to grow a child."

Christine suddenly remembered the conversation she had once had with Sorelli – THIS must have been what Valeria and her man had been doing! "Does it hurt?"

"Not if it is being done correctly." Nadir had made THAT quite clear when Erik had once asked the same question, a long time ago on one particularly drunken night. "Usually, if both partners are truly paying attention to what they are doing, it can feel quite – pleasant. For both parties. Although I am told that many men either do not know how, or do not care how, to make their woman feel good – " By this time, Erik's complexion, at least what one could see of it, was a bright crimson.

"And you? Do you know how to please a woman?" That came out before Christine realized she'd spoken aloud.

Erik paused to swallow before answering, but, if he was EVER going to make any headway with this girl/woman, he knew he'd have to tell her the truth. "I do not know. Oh, I'm well acquainted with the theory, but, I've never actually –" He just couldn't complete that sentence. He slowly started to shut the book on his table, not looking at his Christine.

Christine didn't know if she should apologize or sigh at the emotions now flooding her thoughts. "Erik, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I – you – you aren't angry with me for asking, are you?"

Despite his high color, his voice was steady, "No, my dear Christine, I am not angry with you. But, this is not a subject that the French– or most of Europe, for that matter, is comfortable talking about."

"What was the language in that book? It looked like scribbles to me."

"The original book was written in Sanskrit, a language of India, my translation was in Persian. It was a gift from when I was in Persia, building for the Shah."

"You built for a Shah? What did you build, a palace?"

"Among other things – yes."

_(Alleluia, I managed to get through that without – I think – messing up my K+ rating – I hope – if anybody disagrees, I'll jump it up to T- but I'm trying to keep this one from going "M" like my last one did. Next time, we'll meet up with Carlotta – and maybe – just maybe – Raoul may poke his head in. Please Read and Review._


	5. Chapter 5 The Coming Of Carlotta

**Chapter 5 – The Coming Of Carlotta**

_(A/N – First the boilerplate – I own no one and nothing connected with POTO – and I'm not getting any remuneration for this, it's all just for fun. Now, one thing I've puzzled about is WHY in the world M. Lefevre, who obviously DID listen to Erik's dictates, would hire a lead soprano that Erik gave the Thumbs-Down to from the very beginning. Not to mention, she stayed there almost five years – or – as the 25__th__ Anniversary edition puts it – 19 seasons now. She must have some pretty strong clout to get away with that – don't you think? Also, I said at the beginning that I didn't have a clear picture of where this story would end up – well, I was listening to Melissa Ethridge's Fearless Love and the climax scene just popped into my head – but it will take some time to get us there – so – on with the show!)_

Carlotta Guidichelli, mistress of the current Duc de Plaisance, was currently finagling. It was something she did a great deal, and she did it well. The Duc, who was fairly familiar by now with her tactics, was making what even HE knew would be a more-or-less token resistance.

"But, my dove, I may be the current Patron for the Opera Garnier, but they already HAVE a lead soprano – and she's been there quite some time."

"Not NOW they don't!" Carlotta triumphantly waved this morning's newspaper. The headline read – Opera Songbird Breaks Neck In Tragic Carriage Accident. "The Top Slot's JUST opened up – and you're going to make SURE I get it – aren't you." It was a declaration, not a question.

The Duc sighed, capitulating, and gave orders to have Monsieur Lefevre- the current Opera manager brought to his study as of One PM –and then proceeded to collect his reward from Carlotta in advance.

M. Lefevre, presented with this "fait accompli", protested as much as he dared, but, in the end, had no choice but to ratify the Duc's iron-clad 5 year contract making Carlotta into their new diva. It was that – or be turned out onto the streets himself. /God, HOW am I supposed to explain THIS one to the Opera Ghost? He's going to kill me! Maybe I should leave a copy of the contract in Box 5 – at least that way he might see I had no other choice./

Erik was, as predicted, furious. According to the contract, the ONLY way to rid themselves of this Carlotta without STIFF punitive fines, was for her to quit voluntarily – but – still – it was a Five-Year contract – and he hadn't even heard her sing yet! Perhaps she would meet his standards, but, since he'd never HEARD of this Italian before – he didn't really think so.

He was so distracted by the puzzle/problem of Carlotta that he didn't even notice – until much later – that the Fly Chief had appointed Joseph Bouquet as his successor – a man whom Erik neither liked, nor trusted. Then again, Erik, while he did not precisely IGNORE backstage personnel – did spend less time and energy on them than on the performers.

The next day, Erik, perched in the rafters to observe the advent of this new soprano, watched as a very pretty, and very PETTY, woman dressed in a dreadful shade of pink – with not one, but two small poodles in her arms, swept arrogantly into the foyer, and knew, before the woman even opened her mouth, that this was going to be a battle to rival his time with the Shah. There was no way the Opera's reputation would survive 5 years with this – witch – in the top slot. /Since she can't be fired, I shall just have to make her want to resign – but – perhaps I should wait on that until my Christine is ready to take over – that should be – two years or so. Still – no harm in ensuring that I can observe her –/ and Erik slipped off to ensure that his corridor behind the main dressing room was all set up for observation and eavesdropping.

About a month later, Sorelli had some good (well, good for her) news to share. She was officially appointed principal dancer of the Opera Company – and – on a more personal note – she had gotten the attention of one of the few remaining nobles left in France – between the Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars – nobles were pretty thin on the ground these days. As the rest of the Ballet girls clustered around her – she grinned. "He's young, he's handsome, he's fairly openhanded, he's noble, and he's even got a younger brother, so, one of you girls might get lucky, if this goes on long enough."

"And who IS this paragon, or do you want to keep us guessing all week?" asked Meg tartly.

"His name is Philippe, Comte De Chagney. His brother's name is"

"Raoul" chimed in Christine, remembering her childhood playmate.

"Yes, that's right," said Sorelli, a little startled. "Don't tell me you've MET him?"

"It was a long time ago. I was six, and both my parents were still alive back then. It seems like another lifetime ago – " and Christine fell silent, remembering the day she and Raoul had first set eyes on each other. She could almost hear the cry of the seagulls, quarreling noisily for a bit of sea-washed edible debris, and feel the cold tide on her bare feet again –

It was April in Perros, and the sea was still much too cold, and with too strong a riptide, to swim in for very long. Helena Daae and her daughter had decided to walk along the shore instead of swimming, today. Christine was playing with her new red scarf, trying to decide in what style she most wanted to wear it, when the wind more-or-less snatched it from her, carrying it a good 30 yards into the sea.

Christine –seeing her new scarf floating so far out, uttered a cry, with as much rage in it as sorrow, but, having already gotten orders about NOT going into the water today, was reluctantly prepared to let it go, when both of them heard a splash, and a young, male, blonde head surfaced. He had dived in from the overhang he had been standing on. He was already caught the undertow, but since it took him to the red shawl – he seemed not to notice his real danger.

With a sigh of exasperation, Helene quickly stripped off shoes and over jacket. Growling, "Don't even THINK about going in – I'll get the boy. You stay RIGHT HERE, do you understand me?" She took a flat dive into the water and began swimming at an angle designed to get the reckless young fool – who –she saw – had gripped the scarf like it was a life preserver – without getting caught in the undertow herself.

About 10 minutes later, a dripping wet Raoul and a very weary Helene emerged from the cold surf. He was shaking with cold, but was actually very pleased with his impulsive gesture, since it gave him the opportunity to meet the little girl he had been observing from a distance for the past two days.

"Young man" Helene was lecturing the semi-oblivious young boy, "that was VERY foolish. You had no idea of the dangers in going into the sea today. Even I – who have been swimming for MANY years, deemed the sea too dangerous to go in today."

"But, it worked, so why are you so upset?"

"Because you could have DIED – and – over a scarf – one which I can recreate, if I had to. Such property is not worth losing your life for!"

"I quite agree," said Philippe, huffing into earshot." If it had been the girl wearing the scarf in the water, that would be different. But the scarf alone? What possessed you, brother of mine?"

Raoul shuffled his feet, a mulish expression on his face. "Look, I don't see why everyone is so upset – we all are standing on dry land, the scarf is out of the sea, and everyone is fine-"

Philippe broke in, "You are not fine, you're dripping wet, it's freezing cold with this wind, you're going home to change your clothes right now – if I have to carry you. Don't test me, I WILL do it."

Raoul's gaze would have set Philippe on fire if it hadn't bounced off the shield of his self-justification. "All right, all right. I'm going." And Raoul stomped off to change.

_(I hope you liked this glimpse of the past – do let me know.) Please read and review._


	6. Chapter 6 - Dark Stories of The North

**Chapter 6 – Dark Stories From The North**

_(No, I DIDN'T just vanish; I got caught doing stuff for Easter for my mother. Well, while writing the fluffy stuff is great fun – a good story is not ALL fluff – or it starts to drag. Let's let "Scary Erik" come out to play for a bit – Christine would have to meet up with him eventually, anyway.)_

I was a lovely late spring evening and Meg and Christine were walking with Bianca, one of the other ballet chorus dancers in that portion of the Opera grounds dedicated to plant life. While some small groups, and, occasionally, individual artists performed here, in an open-air gazebo, most of the time, this area only saw people when the gardeners were tending plants and cutting new flower arrangements, or, like now, when some of the inhabitants of the complex felt the need for something other than walls around them. Turning a corner, they found themselves observing the under gardener, Louis, and two men whom they did not know, but who looked too scruffy to be part of the Opera staff, Louis appeared to be pouring out something from a small sack out of his coat pocket.

With some astonishment, Christine caught the gleam of a diamond flickering in the torchlight as it fell towards the ground. While Louis was still bending over his prize, the other two exchanged a look, one man pulled out a knife and stabbed the unfortunate fellow in the back, grabbing up the jewelry. Christine fought back a growl, this was a mortal sin for an Asatru – and the fact that she was only watching did not seem to help her indignation. The other two dancers were not so restrained. Bianca fled, screaming, and Meg and Christine attempted to follow her. Unfortunately, while Meg made it safe away, Christine was caught by the thinner one as she ran.

Outraged, Christine began to scream. Not in fright. She was cursing the dishonorable pair at the top of her lungs, even as the heavier thief/murderer caught up to his friend. Unfortunately, she was upset enough that she had reverted to her first language and neither man could understand a word of Swedish!

However, Erik happened to be on the roof, with a new telescope he had just finished assembling, and was in the process of testing out. Erik was both fascinated by, and repelled by, mirrors. His attitude was more or less /Like fire or water, mirrors are a good servant, but a horrible master./ He more or less had gotten into making things with mirrors in order to conquer his early fear of them – and now he experimented with them frequently.

Hearing Bianca's scream, he had naturally used the telescope to look in that direction. What he saw was a man's body with a knife still sticking from it, a glimpse of Meg and Bianca as they slammed the door to the interior, and his Christine in the hands of two men, screaming and struggling.

While he didn't REALLY fly off the roof towards her, he took less than three minutes to reach the conservatory grounds. The thieves were only now contemplating striking their shrieking captive unconscious, and Erik growled at the crude way the heavy one was eying his Christine. /No man shall EVER treat my Christine so,/ was Erik's last conscious thought, as a familiar red haze obscured his vision.

Christine watched in astonishment as her calm, always courteous friend burst onto the scene – growling incoherently – and grasped her with hands like iron, whirling her out of Fatso's grasp. Skinny began to scramble back for the knife still stuck in Louis. Thirty seconds later, with her hands now unobstructed, Christine whirled back to help her friend, but hesitated, as Skinny was now choking on an unfamiliar rope about his throat. Fatso was being held in Erik's other hand, with his hands beating frantically against the grip of the black-gloved hand. Even as she watched, Erik's other hand came up, and a distinct CRACK ended Fatso's struggles. Skinny was also still and silent. Christine was not sure if Skinny was unconscious or dead, but, truth to tell, she didn't much care.

/Two men of dishonor are no great loss to the world, but what has happened to my Erik? His eyes are glowing like amber fire, his neck is flushed, he's growling like a bear but not talking, and he's got the strength of – a berserker!/

A proper Parisian maiden would probably have fainted at this point, but, though she had lived in France for half her life by now, Christine was still Asatru. In her heart of hearts, she reacted with pride and awe at the sight of one of the Allfather's most rare and valued gifts, the berserkergang. However, the problem with the Berserker was, until he calmed, he literally would attack ANYTHING. (There was a famous tale her father had liked to tell of a Berserker in a rage nearly killing his own young son when the child ran up to him too soon after a battle.)

/Papa, I wish your tale-telling had told me how to CALM one, because I'm in more danger now than when those CLOWNS grabbed me. And I really would rather not be here when Meg comes back with whatever help she can rouse. Besides, I don't want to think what they'd do to Erik! Or Erik to them –/

Looking at the figure still radiating ANGER, she had an idea. /Maybe, if I recreate a familiar situation, he'll calm down./ Carefully NOT getting in his path, she began to sing a Swedish lullaby, one that Erik had heard her sing before, when they had started her lessons.

Erik heard the song through a dark fog, and focused on following it. As was usual with these Episodes, his first thought was, /What did I do?/ Seeing three bodies, he shut both eyes, then turned his head away from the carnage and towards the sound of the singing. "Chris – tine?" It was not his usual smooth tenor; it was more of a rusty rasp, barely intelligible.

"Yes, Erik, It's me. Thank Odin, you're back! I was afraid that your bear-spirit would never leave!"

"My –what?" /Well, at least she doesn't seem repulsed, in fact, she seems – Awestruck? No, I must be imagining it./ "Are you uninjured?"

"A few bruises, perhaps, nothing serious. But, Erik, if you're back to yourself, can we go somewhere else to talk, please? Meg may be back any minute, with half the Opera staff in tow."

Erik was only too willing to leave, but first he retrieved his lasso, sending Christine on ahead. Skinny was unconscious, but at least he hadn't killed the man. Skinny could answer any questions that the crowd he now heard approaching had, he was more interested in the fact that Christine had seen him at his worst, and seemed unphased.

Christine was heading straight for her altar. She needed to give proper thanks for the blessings she had gotten tonight. By the time Erik caught up with her, she was already doing what she termed praying, and anyone else would have termed shadow-fighting, with her father's dagger, one of her few inheritances, firmly in hand.

Watching her, Erik was struck with gratitude that Christine was not some maidenly idiot. If she had fainted when seeing the gardener's murder, he probably would have lost her forever. Either those two would have killed the only witness, or, if Fatso had succeeded, she might have been abducted away before he could get there. Fighting down the red mist at that thought, he waited for her to reach a conclusion.

As she turned the dagger to leave three ceremonial drops of blood on the altar, Erik frowned but let her do it. "Christine, what did you mean earlier, my bear-spirit would not leave? Why would I have a bear-spirit?"

"Well, you ARE a berserker; you must have either a bear or a wolf-spirit. And it just didn't seem like a wolf, but, I'm no expert. If you say it was a wolf, I'll believe you."

"A berserker? What is that? And, you – aren't afraid of me?"

"Don't be silly. Your bear-spirit, I may fear, a little, for one cannot reason with the bear, but you? You are my friend."

_(A/N – Well, Christine is growing up with a spine, but, I don't know, Is she too hard? Should she have had hysterics, or something? Please read and review.)_


	7. Chapter 7 - Dear Old Friends

**Chapter 7 – Dear Old Friends**

_(A/N- I herein give fair warning, I personally think Raoul is a spoiled brat who never emotionally grew up. If you are one of those who support Raoul, READ NO FARTHER – because the Raoul bashing starts here, and since Raoul reminds me much too much of my brother in law AKA the Worthless Lump- it will only get worse as we go along. On a happier note – we will meet the Daroga today and HIM I like. And just to keep the legalities straight, all I own are a few minor characters, anybody you recognize probably is (intellectually) owned by someone else, nor am I getting so much as one cent from this. Clear? OK, then – let's go on.)_

When Christine came to ask Sorelli a question after the matinee performance, she found a ribbon around the door handle of Sorelli's private dressing room. It was the signal that she was entertaining her Comte, so Christine nodded to herself and figured she'd best save her question until her friend was free – probably not until tomorrow. Turning on her heel, she ran right into a skinny, blonde, long-haired youth of perhaps fourteen or fifteen. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, " I didn't see you there in the shadows."

He looked her over, approving of what he'd caught. /Long light brown hair, probably my age (Christine was ALMOST sixteen – in another month and a half), VERY pretty, and a dancer's outfit, meaning, she's available if I want her, for as long as I can afford the price./ "What's your name, Cheri? And who is your current protector, or may I volunteer myself?"

Christine pushed at the entrapping arms, not liking either the constriction, or the insinuating tone. "Let go of me!"

Raoul was disinclined to comply. He began to move his hands over her arms, not-so-subtly caressing them. Christine frowned, thinking of the knife she kept under her tutu, but, no, not yet.

/However, if this jerk doesn't quit mauling me, I may just pull Father's dagger on him yet./ "Monsieur, please, let go of me. I don't even know you!"

That much was true, Raoul realized. Releasing her arms, he instead put both his arms against the wall, with her trapped between them. "My name" he intoned with all the dignity of a king, "is Raoul, Vicomte De Chagney. Now, you tell me yours."

Christine frowned, and then remembered. "Goodness, Raoul, you've changed! It's Christine, from Perros. Now, kindly LET GO. You never used to be this rude!"

"Christine? Christine Daae? That Christine? "Raoul still didn't move, but now it was more out of shock than lust. "What in Heaven's name are you doing HERE?"

/He makes it sound like I was stuck in a garbage pile./ thought Christine as Raoul finally moved about a foot away, giving her breathing room at last. "When my parents died," Raoul grimaced but didn't interrupt, "the Dance Mistress took me in. I've lived here for over eight years now."

"HERE?" His tone still sounded like this was a hell-hole. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it.

"And what are you doing here, Raoul?"/Since it's obvious you hate this place-/ Christine couldn't remember Raoul being so rude before. Pigheaded, reckless, yes, but not rude.

"Visiting my brother Philippe. He had an appointment with his mistress, and since I gave him no warning, he refused to cancel. It seems a little silly to me, why didn't he just send her a note and some expensive bauble? After all, it's not like she's his fiancée or something –"

/Christine was rapidly getting very tired of Raoul's arrogance. /You may have changed, Raoul, but I'm not sure I like what you've become./ Excusing herself, she decided to go pray, since she had an hour before the chorus needed to start preparing to perform this evening.

When she got down the stairs, she was surprised to see a tall, dignified, older man with a turban standing on the quay with Erik's boat approaching. Since she had never seen anyone else down here, she watched, wondering if Erik actually knew this strange man. Certainly he was not your typical Parisian. Yes, his clothes were the latest cut, and the man wore them well, but his complexion was much too dark, nor was his headgear something you saw every day.

The boat was almost touching the quay, when the man looked around and spotted her, giving her an elaborate bow. "Good day, Mademoiselle." His voice was sonorous, and his manner as composed as if they were meeting at a café in daylight, instead of in a faintly musty-smelling, water-filled, torch-lit basement.

Erik frowned slightly as the Daroga salaamed at his Christine, but decided not to object. He knew that Nadir Khan's heart was still with his Fetinah, his long-dead wife. And it couldn't hurt for Christine to know his friend, so, poling them both over to his place, he made introductions.

"My Christine, this is Nadir Khan, once the Daroga of Persia, now the thorn in my side. Daroga, this is Christine Daae, my friend and protégée. Christine, I was not expecting to see you this evening."

"I'm sorry, Erik, but I was a little upset, and so I came down to pray, and was startled by your guest's presence. I meant no harm."

Erik pondered this. "What upset you? Did that twit, Carlotta -?"

"No, Erik. I'll tell you about it later, but, I met someone I hadn't seen in some time. Time did not improve his personality any, I'm sorry to say. He acted like an arrogant jerk."

"Tell me now." Erik urged.

"Remember, when I wore the red scarf and you asked about it? I told you about my childhood playmate, Raoul?"

"Yes, I remember. Gallant and foolhardy, was he not?"

"Yes, well, his brother Philippe is Sorelli's man and he's evidently home visiting his brother. I literally ran into him in the hall and he acted like I was wearing a "For Sale or For Rent Sign" on my chest." After all, Christine had seen enough couples among the Ballet Troupe to recognize a human tomcat on the prowl; she had just never before been propositioned herself. Ignoring a low growl from Erik, she continued "But what really got my temper up was the way he was acting about the Opera House. It was like this was the place where the street-scum dwells. What a complete jerk! Even though he's no older than me, he's acting like some doddering old moralizing fool."

The pinching sensation in Erik's chest eased. If Christine disliked this youth so much, he was no threat to Erik's long-term plans. And Erik had MANY long term plans, all involving a slightly older Christine.

Observing the byplay between the pair, Nadir Khan made a mental note never to even tease Erik about this girl. It was obvious that they were both at least half in love with each other, but neither one was aware of it yet – and Nadir Khan was wise enough not to do anything that might screw up what promised to be a highly entertaining romance. After all, he liked his head right where it was, thank you very much.

_(So? Comments? Screams of Rage? Review, please, and if anyone has ideas how to start dislodging Carlotta, that campaign's about to start! _)


	8. Chapter 8 – Erik is Scheming

**Chapter 8 – Erik is Scheming**

_(While one might think this would be the easiest chapter to write – oh, no, it wasn't! I kept stumbling over Carlotta's willful blindness (or giant ego, take your pick) since picking on someone to get them to do something depends on them REALIZING that they're being picked on!)_

It was the Opening Night of the new season, and Erik and Nadir were in Box 5 together, currently listening to Carlotta slaughtering Rossini's Othello. Erik was wincing as the audible butchery continued. "A less likely Desdemona can scarcely be imagined", he complained to his friend. "Firstly, she's MUCH too old for this role, and that voice! I cannot imagine what LeFevre was thinking!"

Nadir was trying to be the voice of reason, but it was pretty hard going. Erik's dislike of this – female – had grown every season since she had arrived on the Opera Populaire stage. By now, he knew that Erik was counting down days until her contract expired. "Erik, you have said you cannot fire her –"

"No, the late Duc was very clever. ONLY if SHE quits, can we be rid of her. And now that her protector is gone, so, too, is his patronage AND his funding. We simply cannot afford that kind of fine, not if anyone in this building wants to eat anything but horse-grain for the next month or two. I'm not sure WHAT to do, but, there MUST be some way – " And Erik glared from the shadows fit to set Carlotta's wig aflame.

"Well, perhaps if the woman could be more comfortable elsewhere and knew this –" What Nadir actually meant was that Carlotta needed another protector, one who hopefully would insist on keeping her somewhere other than the Opera House. Erik, however, interpreted things differently.

That night, after seeing his friend out, Erik unlocked his laboratory door, making sure he was wearing a fresh pair of gloves. In all truth, he had gotten into the habit of wearing gloves not only because it was one of the marks of an old-fashioned gentleman, but also because between his chemical and botanical experiments, not to mention his tinkering with sharp edged glass mirrors, gloves were frequently a necessity. It just became easier to wear them at all times than to keep putting them on and taking them off. Surveying the room, he went to the shelf holding natural oils, and took down one marked "Essence of Poison Ivy". He also grabbed a paintbrush.

Then he went up 5 flights of stairs in his secret passages, coming to a halt at the Diva's dressing room mirror. The servants had long since cleaned up the mess from this evening's tantrum, not even commenting on it anymore, since Carlotta threw a tantrum once or twice a week, and, by now, it was more rare for there to be peace in this room than the reverse. They had then departed for the opening night party/bacchanalia, still in progress.

Erik could hear the commotion reverberating through the building, but ignored it in favor of his mission. Finding the costume used for the last scene, in which Desdemona is strangled and must hold still while her remorseful husband sings his final aria, he liberally coated collar, cuffs, and the center of the back seam, paying particular attention to those areas which would come in close contact with Carlotta's skin, but probably would not be touched by Carlotta's stagehand/maid/dresser. Then, just for good measure, he coated the interior of all her pairs of shoes the same way. While she did wear stockings, they were not thick enough to really protect her feet from this concentration of oil, or, at least, not for long –

/Tomorrow night's performance should be MUCH more enjoyable,/ Erik grinned to himself as he left the room.

The next night, Erik was back in Box 5, watching the action with the avid stare of a cat at a mouse hole. At first, nothing was different. Carlotta was still screeching out her part, and the rest of the cast was enduring with a stoic, dogged determination. Then he noticed her shifting her weight, when the stage action called for no such thing. By the time the second act was halfway through, Carlotta was shifting her weight again and again, throwing her choreography into disarray, as well as annoying Monsieur Reyer AND the cast. The only one not affected was Piangi, but then, ever since the Duc had died (and probably before that, too), Carlotta had been seducing Piangi as often as she could spare the time. By now, Piangi was so enamored of Carlotta that he would have gone along if she'd taken it into her head to restart the French Revolution. And by the death scene? Erik was delighted. For a supposed corpse, she was about as still as a whirling dervish.

Skipping the curtain calls, he slipped into the passage to observe his handiwork. Sure enough, with the dress removed, Carlotta had sprouted hives in all the places where the costume had touched her skin. (Except for her feet, those just itched abominably.)

Erik chuckled to himself. That would do for THIS week. Now, what could he contrive for NEXT week?

By the next week, he'd gotten another idea. Again sneaking into her dressing room, he carefully took in every dress and skirt Carlotta kept in here, by exactly one half an inch, which made Carlotta feel as though she immediately needed to stop eating. The week after that – he loosened all the dresses by an inch, so that they hung on her like sacks of grain. Then, for a week, he did – Nothing, just let her stew over all the strange things that were happening to her, and wondering what would be next.

By now, rumors about the Opera Ghost were zooming around the building faster than racehorses at the Kentucky Derby. "Carlotta must have offended the Opera Ghost," Christine told Meg as the girl shivered in fright at the thought. "But still, it IS kind of payback for the way that snob treats US. Just because we're not singers –"

"She treats EVERYONE that way", said Meg. "Except for Piangi."

Christine nodded. That was true. As the two girls left their dorm room, she almost tripped on a package outside her door, and addressed to her. "Oh, DEAR. Not Again. Don't tell me that that PEST, Raoul, sent something else! First it was flowers, than it was chocolates, at least I could share those with the dorm, but, I'm afraid to look at what he sent now. Meg, you open it. If this keeps up, I'll have to tell Madame, especially if he sent something expensive this time! I really DON'T want to have to explain it all to her, but I'll have to if it needs to be returned."

"If it's a present, you should be able to keep it. You have to admit, he's trying to apologize –" Meg sounded half amused and half envious.

"I don't need an apology of THINGS. If he really wants to apologize, he should either do it in person, or write me a letter, not bombard me with THINGS."

"Very pretty things." Was Meg's undaunted reply. "Really, I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of this. Play it right, you could start building your fortune. After all, he likes you –"

"But I don't like HIM, or at least, not THAT way! I want my first lover to be special, to be, oh, how do I put this, worthy of me."

Meg had no reply to that. Erik, who had been passing behind the walls and had heard just about every word, frowned to himself. /Worthy of her? She deserves a prince, or a king! Certainly not that fool of a youth – should I talk to that idiot next time he comes calling?/

_Well? Should Erik talk to Raoul? Oh, and don't worry, we're not done with Carlotta YET – Please read and review!_


	9. Chapter 9 - Fireside Chats & Rooftop

**Chapter 9 – Fireside Chats and Rooftop Rendezvous**

_(A/N-I still don't own anyone you recognize, especially Erik. Darnit.)_

It was a cold, grey February day when Philippe, the Comte de Chagney and his paramour, Sorelli, started seriously talking about the future of the Opera Populaire. Nestled in a large armchair near a nice warm fireplace, with his lover on his lap, Philippe mused aloud, "So, without the Opera having a patron, things are sliding downhill?"

"Not completely. For all that he's never clearly seen around the place, the Opera Ghost is somehow keeping the quality up as much as anyone can." Sorelli ignored Philippe's skeptical snort, and plowed on. "The problem is mostly monetary, plus neither Carlotta nor Piangi know the meaning of restraint. You should see the changes she's trying to make in her costumes. And Piangi's belly keeps popping the seams of every costume he's putting on. I mean, forget about padding, he's already overfilling every single pair of trousers they're putting him in." Sorelli was good friends with the head costume seamstress, and Marie had been crying on her shoulder about all this for weeks (sometimes literally.) Sorelli wasn't actually angling for a solution, really, she was just venting, since she couldn't talk about this at work.

While Philippe didn't offer any solutions while Sorelli and he were together, her plaint did stick in his head after he returned home. /I wonder, my estates are doing VERY well, I could probably afford to be patron to the Opera, and Mother likes music –/

After musing over it for another week, he started asking his relatives how they'd feel about it. His mother was in favor, his sisters liked the idea also, and so last on his list was Raoul. After dinner, when the men went to the study, as was their habit, Philippe settled down with a small snifter of cognac, pouring another for Raoul, who would be leaving in three days to return back to the Naval Academy for another six months.

Philippe decided just to blurt it out, since Raoul had been uncharacteristically introspective for about the last two weeks, and was unlikely to say anything much. "What would you say if I told you that I've decided to become the new patron of the Opera Populaire?"

Raoul jerked his head up as though he'd just been stabbed with a dagger. First he frowned, and then he grinned. "That's a wonderful idea! I've been trying to come up with an idea of how to rescue an old friend –"

"An old friend? What does that have to do with the Opera House?"

"She seems to be living there as a ballet dancer." Raoul's tone was distinctly condemning of the idea. "And someone must be blocking my all notes to her, she hasn't written me one back yet."

"She? She who?"

"Do you remember sweet little Christine, from Perros, the girl I rescued from the sea?"

"Raoul, you rescued a SCARF, not the girl. I was there. And then you caught a cold we were all sure was going to become pneumonia." /And Christine may have been cute, but sweet? Not as I remember./ "Wait, is THAT what you've been brooding over all week? The fact that one girl isn't responding to your notes?"

"But, you see, if we're the patrons of the Opera House, she'll HAVE to talk to me!" Raoul was positively gleeful.

"Hold it right there, hero." Philippe was getting an inkling of what was sticking in Raoul's craw by now. "Let's do it this way. I have a "date" with Sorelli late this evening. You write your Christine a note asking for a meeting in two days. I'll make sure it gets into her hands, Sorelli knows everyone living in that building, and if she's also a ballet dancer, it will be easy for Sorelli to deliver a note personally." /And, now that I think about it, Sorelli HAS mentioned a Christine a few times in passing, as a friend, it's probably the same girl./ "If you want her for your first mistress, that's fine with me, as long as she also agrees. You are still a bit young for that, but, well, we just won't tell mother."

Raoul frowned, but then voiced his protest aloud. "I want to RESCUE her from that den of iniquity, not drag her down myself!"

"Rescue? Den of Iniquity? It's the Opera Populaire, not a whorehouse!"

"It's not? Where do most of your friends hunt for new mistresses, when they tire of the old ones?"

Philippe was not going to let this one pass without a protest. "That doesn't mean that only soiled doves live there – but – you know you already have a marriage arranged. It was one of Papa's final acts to engage you to Therese Deuville, you KNOW that! All this girl can ever be IS your mistress, so if that isn't what you want, then let her be."

Raoul, as usual, wasn't listening. Finishing his latest missive, he sealed it and handed it to Philippe, then left the room to look over his wardrobe for their next meeting. He needed to look properly like a hero - /I suppose the armor from the attic would be overdoing it, besides, armor is both heavy and so uncomfortable -/

With some misgivings, Philippe took the envelope with him. This was one letter he was going to deliver himself! He wanted a word with this older version of Christine.

Christine happened to be still up when Sorelli came to the dorm room she shared with Meg. Granted, she had taken her hair down to be more comfortable, but she had not yet started undressing.

Looking in at the girls, Sorelli found Christine brushing out her long hair. It was still dark blond, but the color had deepened as she aged, it now looked more of a light brown, with reddish highlights. "Christine, can you come with me for a few minutes, please? Comte Philippe would like a few words with you. Don't worry, I'll play chaperone."

"What in the Allfather's name does the Comte want to talk to me for? Sorelli, I promise you, I haven't been trying to poach your man – please say you believe me –"

Sorelli laughed, "No, Christine, it's nothing like that, just come along, OK?"

"Well, OK," Christine said, quickly braiding her hair into one plait. It was faster and easier than putting it back up.

Philippe was waiting in Sorelli's postage stamp sized sitting room, turning Raoul's letter over and over in his hands. "Thank you for coming, Christine. It seems as though my brother is attempting to overturn every tradition in our family. You definitely made quite an impression on him. He says he's been trying to write to you several times-"

Christine grimaced. One does not just blurt out to a wealthy, influential potential patron that his brother was a jerk and a pest, even if they HAD known each other many years ago. Choosing her words as carefully as she could, Christine said. "Yes, I got his notes, and his gifts, but Monsieur le Comte, what he wishes from me is not something I choose to gift him with. He wants to be my protector, and I do not choose to take that path. My plans lead down a different road."

Philippe was relieved to hear that. "He wants to meet with you. Perhaps if you meet, you can convince him of that yourself. I am certain that he will not leave off trying to contact you until he hears from you directly." Philippe extended the scrawled note.

Christine reluctantly took the envelope, breaking the seal and reading the plea to meet him the next day - anywhere she chose. Thinking hard, she finally said – "Very well, I'll meet him tomorrow afternoon at 4:30 on the Opera Populaire roof. I don't want to be stuck in some room with a single door, where your brother can block the way out."

That statement told Philippe more about Raoul's technique, or rather LACK of technique, than twenty hours of observation could have. With an inward grimace, he accepted Christine's ultimatum. "Tomorrow, Mademoiselle."

Once Philippe had left, Christine quickly scribbled a note to her friend Erik. Raoul would have his brother there, she wanted Erik there too. She might need more than just her father's dagger.

Slipping out was no real problem, by now she knew all the corridors and how to hide in plain sight in them. Swathed in her darkest hooded cloak, since many of the corridors never warmed up, she went down the stairs, as surreptitiously as she could. She did not notice Joseph Buquet's lustful eyes on her as she left the stable level, and he was too drunk to follow her, but he wondered where she was off to at so late an hour.

Making it down to Erik's level, she was relieved to see him poling his friend the Daroga back to the dock, since it would be impossible to keep her note dry while swimming over to his place.

"Christine, what are you doing here so late? You should be in bed!"

"Erik, I need a favor. That brat, Raoul got his brother involved, and now I have to meet up with him-"

Erik went stiff as a board, saying only "When and where?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, but at least I talked Philippe into having the meeting on the roof at 4:30. Can I ask you to observe, but stay out of sight unless I need your help?"

/My Christine, you couldn't keep me away with a blowtorch!/ "Of course, mon ami. Hopefully you can convince him to leave you alone" /and if you can't, I can always push him off the roof myself!/

The next day was cloudy but, thankfully not as cold. Christine was dressed in her warmest dress and cloak, and made sure that her dagger was an easy draw under her cloak. While she devoutly hoped she would not need it – she was taking no chances. Soon it was time to start climbing the stairs to the roof.

Reaching the roof, she realized that she was not the first one up. Erik was already here, she could feel him. /I wonder where he's hiding, I sure hope he doesn't need to show himself./ Looking over the area, she found an area near the large skylight where the roof was dry and there was no snow. Leaning lightly against one of the decorative statues, she settled down to wait.

She didn't wait very long. Raoul was first up the stairs, with Philippe following more slowly, a watchful, wary look on his face.

"Christine!" Raoul practically bounced over to where she stood, intending a hello hug.

Christine immediately aped Erik's most frosty touch-me-not attitude, stopping Raoul before he raised his arms. "Vicomte de Chagney." There was more ice in her tone than there was on the whole of the Paris rooftops.

"Darling Christine, you don't need to be so formal. I don't insist on my title with you."

"Perhaps YOU don't, but I prefer it. Vicomte, Raoul, you must stop this pursuit of me. I do not want to be your mistress! I have a lifeplan to pursue, and it does not include a detour over into your bed." Christine usually was not this blunt, but she was hoping to open his eyes to the real Christine, rather than the paper doll he seemed to be keeping in his head.

"I rescued you once, cheri, and now you need rescuing again." Raoul was undaunted.

"You rescued a SCARF, I was safe on shore! And anyway, I-do-not-need-to-be-rescued. I am in the place I WANT to be, with good friends, a career about to take off, and I like it right here. What would you offer me? You can't marry me, and even if we did suit, I am not Vicomtesse material. I know the theatre, I sing and I dance, but I don't speak the same way nobles do, nor act that way, nor think that way. And what is more, I do not like you that way. You do not interest me as a lover, I feel towards you like a sister. Go back to your intended, live your life, and be happy. And let me be me. Is that clear enough for you?"

"You don't mean that. I can give you riches and respectability, I can take you away from this Den of Iniquity. You need me."

Erik was nearly ready to throttle the boor for that Den of Iniquity comment alone, but did not want to reveal himself just yet. /It's all words so far – but if I ever catch him alone in a dark alley -/ His hand next to his lasso itched to let fly, but not yet.

Christine growled, frustrated with Raoul's thick-headed stance. Pulling her dagger from its' sheath at her hip, she snarled as the righteous idiot's last words really sank in. "I have tried to be civilized, but, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you ever refer to my home as a Den of Iniquity again, I will cut your tongue out myself. I'm tempted to do it anyway, since your implication is that I and my friends are all prostitutes. If that is your opinion of this place – then the solution is easy. Stay away from my home, and NEVER let me see you again. Now get out of my sight. This conversation is over."

As the two men exited the roof, Erik heard Raoul telling his brother, "She's just angry at me. She'll come around, you'll see." The slam of the door cut off Philippe's reply.

_(Phew. That was not easy to write. So, what does anyone think? Please read and review.)_


	10. Chapter 10 Down From The Rooftop

**Chapter 10 – Down From The Rooftop**

_(A/N- I admit, I was trying to slow things down a little, but every time I attempted anything of the sort, BOTH of my main characters started balking, more or less sitting on my mental stage and ignoring me. Finally realizing that I was trying to bend them over backwards, I gave up and let them have it their way. Then my neighborhood started resembling the great deluge for a while – I felt like looking for an old man building an ark!)_

Christine, still fuming, holstered her dagger, still muttering under her breath. As she turned her head, Erik slid down off the statue he had hidden himself on top of.

"You do know, my Christine, that we're going to have to do something about him, don't you?" He had mastered the impulse, for the moment, to strangle the strutting peacock, but it had been a near thing. At one point, only the fact that the Comte was there also had stayed his hand –

Christine grimaced, but nodded, reluctantly. "He was once a friend, an amusing companion. I can't help but wonder what turned him into such an arrogant ass." Her expression turned mournful. "I feel like I lost an old friend, but every time I meet him, he does some other idiotic thing to infuriate me! Pity we can't hook him up with Carlotta, she infuriates me just by breathing!"

Even as he shuddered at the concept of the bitch and the brat working in tandem, Erik felt his heart pulling at him another way. This was not just attraction anymore, this was - what? Lust? Certainly he felt something he had never before known when he looked at Christine. Possessive, yes, he'd felt that way about Christine for years, but, no, not lust. Or, perhaps, not ONLY lust? Did he – love her? Could he love anyone when he'd never known what love truly was? And even if that were true – could he win her? How did one woo a female, particularly THIS female?

Inwardly gulping at his own daring, Erik went to his Christine, and, lightly, touched her shoulders, trying to be supportive. "We will find a way." It was the first time he had touched her outside of lessons, or that one miserable night when he had strangled the thief. To his relief and gratification, she did not jerk, nor pull away, but brought up her hand to cover his gloved one.

"Yes, we will. It's getting chilly out here. Let's go down to your place and talk about this some more in a more comfortable setting. We should have at least several weeks to come up with a strategy, since he's going back to the naval academy." Actually, Christine was speaking through a sense of relief, on two counts, first, that her inept would-be lover was leaving, and, second, that this was one of only a handful of times that her Erik had been less than rigidly, formally, frustratingly polite. She treasured those moments, since she had been attracted to Erik for almost as long as she had known him – but, even as a child, she had known that she would need to grow up before she had any kind of chance to attract HIM.

As they went down the stairs, she said, trying to explain her feelings, "I really do not want him to be my first lover – I mean, I don't doubt he's practiced and polished, but, I think your first encounter should be – special. Meaningful. You should really care deeply, and know that your partner cares just as much. Don't you agree?"

Erik had learned years ago that he could prevaricate, but Christine seemed to have an inner sense if someone was out-and-out lying. Besides, if he couldn't say this to his Christine, then who could he say it to? "That is one of the reasons I have never taken a lover myself. You must also trust your lover, or it will not go at all well, and I admit, I trust very few people in my life. In fact, offhand, I can only think of two – you, and Nadir."

Christine, for almost the first time since Erik had met her, blushed with pleasure. Since they were on a stair landing at the time, with Erik looking towards her, Erik got to see the crimson flooding her face, and thought to himself, /You look very pretty that way, my Christine./

Christine, feeling a little flustered, murmured a soft, "Thank you, that's one of the nicest things you have ever said to me, and I admit, I trust you, too."

"You are so talented, and lovely, you really deserve a prince. Unfortunately, this IS France. We have no princes left." Erik said, trying to lighten the mood, and also change the subject a little.

"In one sense you are correct. But Erik, at heart I am Asatru, always. My version of a prince is different than those pale shadows of the fairy tales Meg Giry reads. In the olden times in my country, any Berserker who was not already a noble was ennobled by the king as soon as could be – possibly because an army of Berserkers was nearly ALWAYS victorious in battle." She wanted to say more, but the astonished gaze Erik flashed her cut Christine short. It was obvious that he did not catch her meaning, or her intent - /What must I do, Erik? Beg? Strip naked before you? What will it take for you to realize that it is YOU whom I desire, whom I am saving all my first times to be with?/

Erik, on the other hand was just about floored at the concept of being noble in any way. Yes, he knew he was well to do, clever with his hands, and knew his musical talent was exceptional, but still – noble? Him? Naaaaah, life did not work that way. But, still, if what Christine was implying was really what she had said, and not his imagination putting words in her head - /Perhaps there is a chance after all, if I do everything correctly -/ "My Christine, do you – would you – " Where had his eloquence gone? He felt like that half-wild nitwit he had been at eight years old, not his true age of 33. /Never mind that now, just SAY something!/ "Would you consider me as a – potential suitor?" /Oh, just great, you ass, look at how elegant and mannerly THAT came out!/

Christine nearly did a jig, but she would have fallen down the last flight of stairs if she'd tried it. "Erik, frankly, I would be delighted to consider such a thing." /Dammit, man, shut up and KISS me, already!/

Finally, they reached the landing, and, not so coincidentally, secure footing. Christine reached for Erik, took his face, mask and all, into her hands, while Erik, unsure for the first time in years, stood paralyzed by indecision, and kissed him as best she could with the mask in the way. Then she grimaced for one moment. "We'll have to do that again without your mask on; I have a feeling it will feel much better that way."

Erik stood stunned for another moment, saving up every word and sensation into his memories, then bowed his lady into the boat, to take her to his home.

_(In a perfect world. the story would end there – But - we're not through with Raoul, Carlotta, OR Joseph Buquet YET, in fact, they're eagerly waiting their chance to come out and wreak havoc – meanwhile, please read and review.)_


	11. Chapter 11 - Snakes In The Garden

**Chapter 11 – Snakes In The Garden**

_(A/N – I know, it's been a while – but my antagonist characters were having a bidding war- er fistfight – er – disagreement as to who got on "stage" next – and by the time they settled the pecking order – my personal life went crunch against two different financial crises – but, anyway, I'm back now.)_

Carlotta was disgruntled. Not that there was anything new about that – Carlotta was frequently disgruntled, or worse, but this time, she had no specific person she could emotionally bludgeon to make the feeling go away. Oh, she had tried the usual substitutes, she'd screamed at her dresser, (always fun, the woman wept so easily), she'd picked on the chorus (mixed results there – and one little snip of a girl actually had fought back – verbally, anyway), and she'd mocked the ballet girls, and STILL could not make the source of her current bad mood go away.

The cause of her irritation was simple. For the past four months, every morning, stuck to her full-length dressing room mirror, with the dressing room door locked every night, was a note with a number, the number of days that were left on her contract until it expired. (As of today, there were 474 days left.) Occasionally this was accompanied by a note from "O.G." with encouraging sayings such as "Don't wait until the last moment to pack," or "Do start making inquiries as to positions elsewhere."

Nobody she had deigned to ask knew anything about this O.G. that made any sense at all! He was the Opera Ghost – he was a monster – he was a genius - he lived in the Opera house – he didn't "live" anywhere – he didn't exist – he was death to cross. Everyone who was willing to say anything about him had a different story. M. Lefevre wouldn't discuss the subject at all – the only person who seemed to both know something practical and be unafraid to say it was that repulsive drunk, Joseph Buquet. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Carlotta had dealt with a drunken creep, although she preferred not to remember her youth that way –

According to Buquet, he was a deformed freak who lived on the lowest level of the Opera House, had a lover among the ballet rats, and ran the place like an army general – most of the staff was terrified of him (Carlotta could well believe THAT). Buquet claimed to have seen him a few times in the fly galleries after hours, and was attempting to follow him back to his "lair", but had lost him on the lake, not being prepared at that time to take an impromptu bath. (Carlotta reflected a bit primly that she could well believe THAT, too – the man generally reeked of stale sweat and alcohol – it was possible he hadn't bathed in months.)

"And you are sure that this oddity has a lover among the ballet rats. How do you know? Did you see them together? And who is she?"

Buquet shifted his weight, not answering at once. He didn't want to let all his cards show at once, he would not name the little slut just yet. However, "I saw her sneaking down to his level a few weeks ago, no one and nothing else is down that low except for dusty old prop furniture of no possible value to anybody, where else COULD she have been going? Next time, maybe, I'll follow HER, instead – she's at least prettier to look at."

"Next time? You said you've only seen her down there once –"

"But I've asked around, she's not around for a couple of hours most evenings – and NONE of the other girls know where she's going when she goes. Her roommate says she tells her she goes "to pray" but she's not to be found in the chapel – so where IS she going? She goes to HIM, I'm sure of it."

With no better plan, Carlotta agreed that attempting to find this "Phantom" was probably the best thing to do. She knew that if he found the man Buquet would probably kill him – but that was Buquet's lookout, not hers. She just wanted all the annoying things to stop happening, and surely if this O.G. was dead, and she could prove it, M. Lefevre would renew her contract, so that all would be as it had been. She intended to rule over this Opera House, at at LEAST the same Queenly salary, although she would try for a raise, she previously had, for as long as she could possibly manage it. Then, once she had enough saved up to buy a small country or two, she would retire. Not before. (And never mind the fact that Carlotta couldn't have two cents in her pocket without spending them -)

Each of the conspirators came out of this conversation prepared to screw over their "partner"; it was just part of their nature to be untrustworthy. Carlotta had not yet paid Buquet one centime, and Buquet figured that any man (or thing) with that kind of power and money (20,000 francs was nothing to sneeze at, and he was getting that every MONTH.), could be blackmailed more easily than being eliminated. If he just could FIND the guy, well, then they would see. At the very least, he could threaten to expose that cute little side piece, what was her name again? Oh, yeah, Christine, that was it.

So he started following Christine after rehearsal and on her off hours. While he thought he was being sneaky, which was a process Buquet thought himself quite good at, Erik, who wrote the book on sneaky, soon noticed Buquet's fixed attention. Since he did NOT want to tell Christine about the situation until he had determined just WHAT Buquet was up to, Erik began shadowing Buquet, who was shadowing Christine, until he realized that this was getting all of them nowhere. They seemed to be running in circles.

Finally, Carlotta unwittingly broke the Mexican standoff, hissing at Buquet as they passed in the hall, "Well, have you found this maniac's lair, yet?" Erik, within earshot, but not sight, and certainly no stranger to being called a maniac, realized at that point that two of his least favorite employees had joined forces against him. While this was not a disaster, it was not good, either. /I shall have to do something to break up that pair, and quickly. Although I would match wits with that brainless fool anytime, he might just get lucky and find a way around all my traps. However, perhaps first I should deal with the Diva – Hmmmmm – how shall I punish such presumption?/

Meanwhile, Christine, while not as aware of the situation as Erik, WAS ware that Buquet was acting oddly. Not that she knew him well, nor, truthfully, wanted to, but, when every time you look up, you see a large, unkempt, somewhat smelly, 250+ pound man watching you, you will soon notice that he's always there. /What does that man WANT? He seems to be obsessed with me, yuck! Sorry, I just don't think he's up to anything I would want to know about. Should I confront him, or leave it alone? At the very least, I'm going back to wearing Father's dagger, and making sure it's easy to draw in any outfit I wear offstage. Not to mention, I'm going to start sleeping wearing it, since I am sure he can get into the dormitories if he chooses./

_(A/N – OK, since I haven't said any of the boilerplate lately, I own nobody you recognize, I am getting nothing except enjoyment from this – and BTW – to those who have a hard time with my formatting style, sorry, I learned this style back in the days when all there was to type on was a manual Royal typewriter, with One Font – and to get bold you had to overtype, and as for italic, it didn't exist. Thoughts were denoted by a double slash, and I can't seem to write any other style. OK, now that things are sliding not so slowly into dangerous territory, now I can write towards my REAL Ending. Meantime, anyone who I haven't offended by my long absence, please Read and Review.)_


	12. Chapter 12- Nadir's Discovery

**Chapter 12 – Nadir's Discovery**

_For those of you who have been wondering what happened to the Daroga, Erik's had him on a fact-finding mission – In 1880's France, find me a Gooi (An Asatru Priest/Community Leader) and see what the marital customs are – friends, this is not easy even today, in THAT time period, Erik might just as well have said – find me a live purple elephant! However, Nadir was the Persian equivalent of a Chief of Detectives, he'll actually come through. OK, so France did not actually HAVE a Swedish Consulate or Ambassador in the relevant era, well, this is MY universe, so in this one, they got started 70 or so years early._

Nadir Khan was frustrated, but not hopeless. For weeks now, he'd been trying to find someone/anyone! in France from Sweden who knew anything about the "Old Ways" (or at least, would ADMIT to such knowledge to a total stranger) and had come up absolutely dry. He had already tried the docks, and was stymied by the language barrier.

However, he had heard that there was a group of Swedes in Bordeaux who were applying to the Grand-Assembly to build a Consulate, so, he was headed to Bordeaux. On the train. Which was faster and more convenient than a horse or a camel – but he still would rather be on a horse or a camel. The train really reeked. Lots of mostly unwashed bodies (with over reeks of too much perfume), coal ash from the engine got everywhere, on everything, and the food was, at BEST, second rate. Nonetheless, this was important to his good friend/foster son Erik, he would endure. This once. But the NEXT time Erik asked for something like this, Nadir might make him go do it himself!

Finally reaching the station, he began making inquiries where the "Swedish People" were located and, after a bit of misdirection, finally found a group of mostly large blonde men looking over the proposed building site. He rapidly found, to his intense relief, that most of them were fluent in French, since his grasp of Swedish was pretty shaky. Odd accent, but at least they could all understand each other.

"I am looking," said Nadir after the social niceties had been observed, "for someone who is knowledgeable in the ways of" he paused to make sure he had the pronunciation right, "Asatru. I have a good friend whose girlfriend is Asatru, and he would like to marry her in the ceremony she will most recognize and be comfortable with. Can you direct me to such a person?"

The crop of blonds exchanged rapid glances, and a few phrases in Swedish, before a very large, stocky, tall man who resembled a light blonde bear stepped forward a little more. "I am Karl Von Tork. I have the knowledge you are seeking. Come to our suite, where we can be comfortable, and then tell me what you know of these two people."

Nadir complied, editing carefully some of Erik's bloodier history. He didn't want to have the man refusing on principle, he just wanted his friend to be happy, and it looked like he had FINALLY found someone who could look past the skin and into the soul, where there was a very lonely man who only wanted someone who could return an unconditional love.

When Nadir had finally answered most of Karl's questions, the man nodded. "We should be here for at least the next six months. If you can get your friend to agree to a Saturday Evening date for the ceremony, and give me two days warning, I will preside. Does the bride to be have an heirloom sword or axe to present to her groom as part of the ceremony?"

Nadir blinked at the question, unsure how an axe or sword was part of getting married. "The only blade I have heard her speak of is a dagger she inherited from her father – would that do?"

"Possibly."

"How about jewelry? Rings or suchlike."

"It's not required, but seems to be becoming very popular. I have a book of designs I can loan you – granted – the written text is in Swedish, but a picture is a picture, and needs no translation."

Karl left the room for a moment – coming back with a not very thick book. Opening it to the first illustration, he indicated the figure of a man, one side of his face a positive ruin, holding a spear and sitting on a throne-chair, with a bird on each side of him. "This is a representation of the Chief of our Gods, Odin Allfather."

"His face is-"

"He incurred those scars, and the loss of his one eye, to gain wisdom and foresight. He is proud of the knowledge he earned, and does not begrudge the price he paid. We are proud of what he endured to make the world a better place."

Nadir couldn't take his eyes off of the woodcut. "You may find this hard to believe, but if you put some muscles and blonde hair on my friend Erik, and handed him a spear to hold, he would look almost exactly like this picture. If, that is, you could get him to take off the mask he wears long enough to see it."

"Really? Now you have me intrigued. I think I must meet this man."

"You will. But for now, let me borrow this book for a few weeks, and I will bring it back next month."

"Actually, I think that three Fridays from today, I will come up to Paris, and you may escort me to meet this Erik and Christine. If I can meet them both at once, so much the better."

Nadir agreed, somewhat absently, his mind already busy scripting how he would broach the subject of a visitor to Erik. However he managed it, Erik HAD to see this picture, here was a culture where the Head God was just as disfigured as Erik, and they were PROUD of his scars. And this girl was raised (well, at least as a child) with attitudes similar to this man's. This seemed more and more like a match made in Heaven (or maybe Valhalla?)

_(A somewhat short, but vital chapter – you can't have a wedding without someone to preside over it! And I HAD to get that picture over to Erik, and the man hasn't really left the Opera House Complex for over a year. To any Asatru who may be reading, while I do not promise to get it all correct by today's rules, I am not going to start making fun of your faith – I'm just borrowing a few aspects for a time, OK? Please Read And Review.)_


	13. Chapter 13 - Piangi's Offer

**Chapter 13 – Piangi's Offer**

_(This is happening in Paris at about the same week Nadir is off talking to the Gooi in Chapter 12, just to keep the timeline straight. And if you recognize any character, I almost certainly don't own them – and I'm not getting paid for any of this. I always felt a little sorry for Piangi – OK, so he's got less than no taste in women OR music, he's a hopeless klutz, he's eating his way into an early grave, but, still – he's kind of endearing. He's getting out of this with a whole skin – and if he takes the red-headed witch with him, well, I for one won't cry. But, just like last chapter, I am playing timeline games, speeding up construction in Brazil by about 15 years.)_

Carlotta looked hopefully at her confederate. "Well, what have you found? How close are you to this Lunatic Ghost?"

Buquet gave her a confident grin /Never mind the fact that this place has more miles in the interior of one building than it would take to walk an entire arrondissment–/ he had found a boat slip – but had not yet found a way past the iron grid behind it – he was going after a hacksaw as soon as he got his salary next week – and then they'd see – but he was fairly sure he had found where the beast was lairing up. 'I should have him by next week."

Carlotta – however – while she encouraged her confederate to his face– knew boasting when she heard it - she was going to have to come up with another plan as an alternate – and the clock was inevitably ticking down.

Ubaldo Piangi was also not happy. (Actually, this was, if he ever stopped to think about it, one of the major reasons he was constantly eating.) He wanted to leave Paris, and this weirdest of Opera Houses – true, most Opera Houses were haunted, but not like this one! He had a ghost giving him dietary advice, tormenting his beloved Carlotta, and actually running the place – and NEVER making an appearance. It was all too creepy for words, and he wanted OUT! Less than a year to go on his contract, and HE for one, was already writing to every Opera House he could locate – hopefully he could get another position by the end of the year, and if he had to break the contract, well, with less than one year to go on it, he could afford the penalty clause. He was leaving, and that was the end of the argument.

With a small grunt of anticipation, Piangi scooped up his mail from the silver tray he kept outside his suite – there were several letters there. As he went down the hall, he was sorting his correspondence, "Letter from admirer, letter from female admirer, bill, letter from cousin Carmine, wait, what is this?" The last envelope was thick and covered with several cancellation marks and had obviously come from a long way away. "Brazil?" Well, he HAD written to there also – "Let's see just what we have here." Turning the envelope over, he was startled to note that he recognized the seal as one of his childhood friends, "What on Earth is Theo Albano doing in Brazil?"

As Piangi opened and read his letter, he found that his good buddy was now the newly appointed manager of the (soon to open) Opera House in Sao Paulo. He needed entertainers, was prepared to pay a princely salary, and was asking his old friend for a favor. Best of all, there was an entire Italian community there in Brazil. Actually, Piangi remembered Theo fairly well. Unless he'd changed (or gone broke – unlikely), he probably had at least a half-ownership on the place, and he wouldn't have taken the job unless he had creative control – this was ideal – well, except for the location, but once he GOT to America, he wouldn't need to use a boat (horrible things – he got seasick easily) anymore – this could work!

Suddenly struck by a horrible thought, Piangi stopped in his tracks, coincidentally blocking the corridor. His idol, his Goddess, his Carlotta – he MUST get her out of here also. How was he going to get her to go with him? Just pointing out that she was in danger wouldn't work – but that black-edged note EVERY day in her dressing room was terrifying him – even though Carlotta never let him see it closely. She seemed to think if she ignored it long enough, the problem would go away. Piangi was not going to take the chance. He needed to find a way to coax Carlotta OUT of this place – now that there was somewhere else to go – and quickly. At this point in his ruminations, much to the relief of the five people trapped behind his bulk, he began walking again.

He went straight to Carlotta's dressing room, scowling at that horrible Buquet just coming down the hall. Really, couldn't the man find somewhere else to linger? He was hanging around his lady much too much, especially lately.

Breathing deeply to calm down his racing heart – perhaps he SHOULD start paying more attention there – he slipped in to consult his Beloved Carlotta.

Carlotta normally would have given Piangi grief for just barging in like that, but since she had gotten only semi-hopeful news from her partner in crime, she would let Piangi chatter – who knows, he might have an idea she could steal. Besides, he was the one person in this blasted place who WASN'T constantly trying to change her.

When she heard the salary Piangi was going after – and with a solid promise of employment, yet – she started thinking it really might be worth pursuing her career elsewhere. Not only was the salary offer at least twice what she was getting here, but a new building would not have a ghost (or whatever he was – she still didn't know for sure) and she could get things done HER way from the start. But what made up her mind was when Piangi was reminiscing about Theo and let it slip that he preferred redheads – not to mention he could buy a small country already – IF she could seduce this Theo, she could have it all. As for this place, and that contract, let them try to enforce it from over another ocean – and bad luck to the whole lot of them. Besides, she'd never really liked playing Queen Alyssa – and Hannibal was going to be the next production. However, true to her selfish little heart, she would not – and she convinced Piangi to do the same – tell anyone that they were leaving right up till the day they went – much less WHERE they were off to. After all – that perky little ingénue from the chorus might get there first, if she got wind of it – now what was the little brat's name again? Oh, yes, Christine something-or-other weird.

_(Bon voyage, and don't let the door hit you on your way out. Next, I have to get Erik to nerve himself up enough to actually propose, and get Christine up on stage – before M. Lefevre has a nervous breakdown! Please read and review.)_


	14. Chapter 14 – You Want Me To WHAT?

**Chapter 14 – You Want Me To WHAT?**

_(A/N – People, I'm surprised none of you picked up on the gap I left in the casting – when Carlotta goes, Christine can step in – but who is Piangi's understudy? Just like Carlotta, he doesn't have one. However, Erik is a firm believer in "The Show Must Go On", he'll find them a replacement tenor. And no, he won't step in himself – too many hysterical females would be fainting all over the stage. Darnit.)_

Nadir Khan could tell that Erik was fuming as the little gondola came towards him – the fury was almost a visible cloud around his friend. Knowing Erik was dangerously unpredictable in this mood, he waited until the boat was safely docked and the door-grid raised before he ventured a tentative, "So what has happened, my friend? Why are you so upset?"

Erik, stalking towards his parlor area, didn't even bother turning himself around before growling, "Carlotta's finally ran off, but she took the lead tenor with her! There isn't a single decent tenor among the male chorus who can step in – the ones who aren't baritones or basses are either too physically unfit or have voices that are hopeless for solo work! Where do I find a good tenor at such short notice?" Still growling audibly, he threw himself into a chair.

Nadir gingerly sat on the edge of the other chair, prepared to move at any moment. He knew that Erik did not really regret the loss of either Carlotta OR Piangi, merely the gap in the cast – with less than three weeks to opening night, yet. It was too late to change to a different Opera, and to refund all the tickets was NEVER a good thing for any theater.

At this point, Nadir noticed Erik was eying him speculatively. Nadir felt his sense of unease growing as Erik kept staring – straight at him. "Erik, what are you thinking? Talk to me."

"You're a tenor, I've heard you sing." True, Nadir still tended to sing when he was three sheets to the wind, and he had sung for his friends in his youth, but –

"That was a good twenty years ago! I'm out of practice – and I have no intention –"

Erik wasn't even listening, too caught up in the possibilities. "You'd have to lose the turban while onstage –"

"No."

"But certainly you are still in excellent physical shape –"

"I said no!"

"And it would only be until we could get a new tenor hired and trained –"

"I'm not hearing this!" And Nadir actually put his hands over his ears – not that that stopped his relentless companion for as much as a second.

"And I could tutor you back to an acceptable singing standard – we can start tonight!"

"Erik – I won't do it! I haven't sung in public in years, except when I've drunk too much! Besides, the management would never go for it."

"Let me get you a nice brandy."

"Erik, are you even listening to me?"

While this was all happening in the basement, the above-stairs was in a state of near-panic. No soprano and no tenor equaled no performance. No performance equaled no salary or bonuses forthcoming. M. Lefevre had almost fainted when he had read the brief note and had gone home in a state of nervous exhaustion – and M. Reyer was almost in tears, a state few had ever seen him in.

As a last, desperate, effort, M. Reyer had resorted to individually re-auditioning every cast member, hoping for a semi-acceptable substitute. So far, he'd had no luck on the tenors, and there was only one more female chorus member left to try. If this didn't work, he was going to have to advertise – which was a horror to him. "Alright, Mam'zelle Daae, from the beginning of the aria, please."

Christine was a bit nervous, but, she was not stupid. If she did well here, everything she had dreamed of could be at her feet by tomorrow. Taking a deep breath and imagining her Erik standing just behind the orchestra leader, she began, softly, oh, so softly -

"Think of me – think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye,

Remember me, once in a while; please promise me you'll try."

At the clear, rounded tones, Monsieur Reyer's head, not to mention his spirits, went up. Even if they had to find a new tenor, well, now this was hopeful, an almost perfect soprano – but could she manage the trills at the end of the number? Did she have the stamina and breath control needed? By the end of the number, every musician, most of whom had been half asleep during most of the other auditions, was wide awake and grinning widely. The wings were crowded with workers and performers, all smiling in approval. They had a new soprano, and she was BETTER than Carlotta, now, if someone could lend them a tenor -

Christine, elated, lost no time after being confirmed as new temporary lead soprano running for the basement. In her euphoria, she forgot the precautions she normally employed to ensure that she was not being followed.

Buquet was right behind her, just waiting for this moment. He followed her as closely as he dared as she pelted down five flights of steps, sometimes two steps at a time. This time, he would get this "Phantom" cornered, and if he had a pretty girl he could "ahem – celebrate" with afterwards, well that only made it all the better. After all, with that bitch Carlotta taking a flit – this was now his best way to get rich. If this man couldn't be blackmailed, then he could just kill him and ransack the place. He could almost taste the wealth – but he needed to find all his quarry's bolt-holes first, so that the man couldn't wriggle free at the last minute.

Christine was not going to let a little thing like the lack of the gondola stop her, not tonight, she was going to tell her friend/lover (well – hopefully)/suitor all the latest news. But how was she to get in? Erik had, at one point, warned her that there were traps all through this level, just in case of an unwelcome guest. He had, of necessity, shown her where not to swim but did that mean there were no traps he hadn't shown her? Probably not, she acknowledged to herself – her man would always have some secrets he had not told her, or anyone. So now what? She was not, repeat – not, going to just stand there and wait for a boat to come along. Well, she could always swim over, but – not in this outfit. How else to get in? Well, he had mentioned – of course, there was the way they had come the night she had realized he was berserker – they had gone from her altar – but hadn't used the boat to get into Erik's place that night – now how had that route gone?

Slowing down to think, she turned towards the wall to the side, finding one particular brick. Then another, then five more in a particular sequence. Buquet, watching avidly, practically drooled in his glee. A way in – without having to go into the water! Perfect! As a section of wall slowly turned, and Christine grabbed a torch from a small supply at the entrance, lighting it from the gas jet that dimly illuminated the pier, Buquet stared hard at the bricks, memorizing the sequence – he hoped.

Should he try it now, or would later be better? Later, he finally concluded, if he could catch this "Phantom" sleeping, he could – yes, that would be much better.

_(Well, what do you think, will Nadir work as a stand-in? We're almost down to the wire, now all we need is for Raoul to come strolling in to get the real action going – and YES, Erik, we do too need him here for this. Meantime, I'd love to see a review – or are you all still out for Father's Day?)_


	15. Chapter 15 - The Curtain Rises

**Chapter 15 – The Curtain Rises**

_(A/N – a few words about costumes and casting – it has been pointed out – correctly as far as it went – that Muslims do not wear a turban. If you are thinking about the kind most people envision when the word turban comes up – this is correct – that (traditional) style of turban is worn by the Sikh people – the type that Muslims wear is more like the style seen in pictures of the Ayatollah – plain colors, (mostly white or black,) round sides and flattish top. But it is still called a turban. As to Nadir's singing voice, I picture Nadir as being a ten years older version of Ramin Karimloo, and anyone who has watched the 25__th__ Anniversary Edition of Phantom Of The Opera (or Les Miserables 25__th__ Anniversary – where he played Enjolras) knows that man can sing just fine! (Toriana wipes drool off her chin and gets back to her keyboard.))_

Joseph Buquet was frustrated to the point of being almost incoherent. It had been over a solid two weeks of trying to get that doorway open on the 5th basement sublevel, and he still had not managed the feat. He had even tried to saw through the grid at the boat dock, but whatever material that grid was made from – a hacksaw wouldn't so much as dent it! Tonight was the Hannibal Opening Night, and he was STILL no farther along than he'd been the day after Carlotta left. Yes, he was now sure he had found the Phantom's Lair, but what good was that if he couldn't get in? Plus he was pretty sure that he'd been spotted at least once by his quarry – and while Buquet knew that he could get just as rich by hauling the man's ugly body up to the managers as he could by blackmailing the freak, especially if he could ransack the place first – he also knew that this was a very perilous game he was playing. He could just as easily wind up dead. Rumor had it that the Phantom had killed dozens of men before this.

Erik HAD noticed Buquet's efforts much earlier than Buquet realized, but other than locking the side door so that it was, for now, solid as the brick it was originally built from, and watching Buquet's frustrated antics with a certain sour amusement, he really had better things to pay attention to. He was using the book Nadir had brought back with him as inspiration and was just finishing making a pair of rings with Asatru designs, one with a triple, interlocking triangle for him, and one with a stylized anchor/hammer design for her. Once they were done and perfectly polished, he planned to propose, AFTER the performance, since they already had a priest (or Gooi) coming to town the next day after Opening Night. Erik didn't much believe in long engagements, anyway. When he wasn't busy with that – or trying to coax/tutor an increasingly ever more reluctant Nadir – he was spending some quality time with his Christine, drinking in her bubbling high spirits as though they were the best champagne.

In actual fact, Nadir did not truly hate the situation as much as he was pretending to, but it was so much fun to goad his friend that he couldn't resist letting THIS joke run as far as he could take it. Besides, he only had to perform for one night, after that, they had a tenor coming from one of the other countries, eager to take on the role of Hannibal (as well as the slot of lead tenor.) He had even (accidentally on purpose) flubbed a note or two while practicing with Erik, just to keep his old friend guessing. Truly, he was as ready, Insha'Allah, as he could be. His best performance would make a good marriage present for his friend – since he really did not envisage Christine refusing if – no, make that WHEN, Erik proposed. He saw what Erik did not, that Christine genuinely adored his dearest friend, and if Erik kept on dragging his feet this way, she might soon turn the tables and propose to him herself!

The rest of the cast, and crew, were just relieved that the show would go on, and even M. Lefevre was not jittering in the hallway, at least, not as much as he usually did. It was obvious that wherever they had found this mystery tenor that the O.G. approved of these two lead singers, Thank God! And they had a new, RICH patron, even if he did come with a pest of a brother, two giggling sisters, and an affair with the Prima Ballerina. At least he wouldn't be pushing to get his dancer into the top spot, since she was already there!

It was almost curtain time. Philippe, his mother, his sisters, and his unusually quiet (well, it was, at least, a nice change from his usual fidgeting) brother Raoul were already seated along with M. Lefevre in the Patron's box, Box 6, which shared a wall with the infamous Box 5, with a tray of crudités, a bottle of the best Champagne, and a footman to fetch anything else not already supplied.

Raoul held his breath as the curtain rose, looking for his Christine – yes – there she was, in the lead position, dressed in a large hooped skirt, in gold and green and red. Silently frowning at the bare shoulders on her dress, he fingered the sword he had insisted on wearing tonight, over his brother's would-be daunting frowns, his mother's breathless protests, and his sisters' giggles, wondering how soon he would need to use it on some importuning pest. He would have to get to Christine's dressing-room right after the performance, so he could protect her.

Erik wasn't going to miss this performance. After all, he and Christine had both been expending a great deal of sweat and effort towards this outcome for over ten years now. He was in his seat before the orchestra had finished warming up, eagerly anticipating a night like no-one in Paris had ever seen before – as long as Nadir could deliver – he had no doubts as to his Christine, she could and would deliver such an Elyssa as this world had never yet known. And afterwards, he had a ring, and a proposial, all ready to deliver.

Buquet, looking down at the soprano below him, in his frustration, could almost hear her mocking laughter ringing in his ears, and resolved then and there to track the little bitch down in her dressing room after the performance, and force the mocking little slut to show him where and how to open that door, even if he had to do it at knifepoint. In the meantime, there was a show to put on, and he'd better get on with his part of it.

Nadir was finding that rehearsal was NOT the same as performance – while he had his lines and music down pat – he had been working on them pretty much nonstop for three weeks, after all, but he seemed to be having trouble getting his legs to move – part of him kept screaming "What the Heck are you doing? This is not your place!" But he was not going to ruin his friend's big night with stage fright. /You've faced down the murderous Shah of Persia, not to mention his crazy BITCH of a chief wife – what are a few thousand Parisians? Just DO it – don't overthink!/ Taking a deep, determined breath, he opened his mouth, and just lost himself in the music and the character.

Christine was not afraid of anything but letting Erik down, Seeing the drapes twitch in Box 5, she imagined, correctly, that Erik was behind them, awaiting her voice. She began, a little soft, but the tone was clear and true. As she relaxed into the now familiar music, she felt an shock of an emotion very like ecstasy run up her spine, and knew, as Erik had once seen long ago, that THIS was what she was meant to do, what she had always been designed for. By the time the curtain call came, she was no longer afraid, she knew herself, and she knew her mind. Blowing a kiss in the direction of Box 5, she went to her knees in a deep, low curtsy, then bounded up, grinning in a way she rarely felt like doing.

_(Well, that's going to be one __busy__ dressing room door soon – don't you think? Please read and review.)_


	16. Chapter 16 Housecleaning Day

**Chapter 16 –Housecleaning Day**

_(A/N – Today is the day that Erik has __long__ been awaiting, he gets to dispose of the trash littering up his Opera House! Just to reiterate, I own only a few NPC's, the majority of the characters belong to Leroux or Webber, and nobody's paying me anything other than a (verbal) compliment or two for this. Now that that's clear, let's get started -)_

His work in the fly gallery was at last completed – at least well enough to leave it for the night. Buquet thought snidely that if this all worked out, some other poor schmuck could finish coiling the ropes more securely tomorrow, he was planning on being rich enough to embark on the pub-crawl of the century – funded by a grateful patron of his own, either as hush money or as a blood price. Either way worked for him. Personally, he hoped it was as a bounty on the Phantom's head – blackmail victims had eventually turned the tables on more than one of his old acquaintances. The lucky ones had merely been killed – the justice system in France these days was not that different from what Victor Hugo had written of in Les Miserables, no matter what the public officials said. Come to think about it, maybe he should just plan on – no, better to play it by ear. But if he could pull off the death of the Phantom, what bragging rights he could claim! He could cadge drinks off that story for YEARS! For now, time to get into Carlotta's old dressing room, before that pesky little slut got back into it!

Fingering his (stolen) master key, and checking to make sure the knife he always carried was razor sharp, he grinned evilly and widely, momentarily exposing his rotting teeth. After all, who was up here to see, anyway?

Erik was using the mirror entrance to Carlotta's – now Christine's – dressing room when he heard someone coming up the corridor. Not wanting to be spotted until he had everything laid out the way he had pre-planned it for the past two weeks, Erik slipped back behind the mirror – just in case they, whoever they were, were headed for this room. He didn't expect Christine back for a while yet – she was still being held captive by the manager, as well as her newly adoring fans, and would be, by his best estimates, for at least another hour.

To his astonishment and displeasure, it was that louse Buquet – who then proceeded to hide behind the costume rack. While Erik debated the wisdom of reopening the mirror – and giving away ANOTHER of his entrances to the creep – Erik was under no illusions as to this man's character. Buquet was a liar, a thief, a peeping tom, and a serial rapist. But Erik could not fathom just WHAT Buquet was up to here, except that any reason involving his Christine was no GOOD reason. Deciding he would rid the place of this nuisance once and for all, he reached for the switch that opened the mirror –

And the door burst open as Christine swept in, slamming the door right in Raoul's face. She was just saying (or rather shouting) "I don't NEED your help, I'm all grown up now, I've taken care of myself for several years now. Go home to your fiancée and let me live my own life my own way!" Disgruntled, she plopped down and began to remove the pasteboard and gilt crown affixed to her hair. "The nerve of that man! Follows me around, rattling that ridiculous toy sword of his whenever I talk to an admirer, which is what I'm supposed to be doing tonight – aargh!" This was less because of her rage as because of the fact that Buquet had managed to get himself within a few feet, and the smell had just hit her nose, alerting her before he could get quite close enough to pull his knife.

"And just what are you doing in here?" Christine's hand had drifted to her hip – before Buquet had time to adjust his plan, her father's dagger was unsheathed and in her hand, and she fell into a pose she had practiced all her life – that of a warrior awaiting her opponent's next move.

Even as Erik reached – again – for the opening switch to get in there and help her fight – Erik could not suppress a twinge of pride at her calm demeanor – THAT was his Christine!

As Buquet and Christine began the deadly dance that was a knife fight, the door burst open again, and the fool burst in, only to skid on the entry rug, which carried him over to the opposite wall – momentarily knocking Raoul even sillier than he normally was. Even as he mentally groped for his composure, Christine got in a swipe that connected with Buquet's off shoulder, drawing a few drops of blood – although with the clothes he wore, it was a bit hard to tell.

Frustrated, Buquet snarled, "Look, whore, I know you're giving it away to that malformed freak, and I need to talk to him – now, you're going to open that door for me if I have to beat you to do it!"

By now, the mirror was sliding silently aside, and Erik could join in the conversation. "All this because you want to speak to me? Well, I am here – so say what you need to say – but call my Christine "whore" again – and I will kill you myself. Now stop your - " But even as he stepped through, watching Buquet warily (and paying no attention at all to the half-stunned nitwit in the corner) Christine got in a lucky thrust – right through to Buquet's heart.

As Raoul watched the huge, barrel-chested man fall to the floor – on top of a small piece of china which had been knocked down in the struggle, he could almost hear his picture of Christine cracking with the porcelain. Whatever she was now, this was not someone he wanted to be acquainted with. It was too late to save her from this corrupt place, she was irredeemable. He began to inch slowly towards the door, keeping a careful eye on the couple and the corpse.

"Raoul." That voice turned his legs to stone, especially since she had retrieved the knife, still with traces of Buquet's blood on the blade. "Now do you see why it would have never worked between us? You want a delicate maiden you can protect – and while I might once have been her – I grew into someone else. I don't need a protector – I need a man who can accept me as I am – and you are not him. Go home, go marry your Therese and be happy. All I want from you is your silence on this matter. I need more than you can give me."

Raoul was gasping at his near-fatal (well, he was sure she would eventually have killed him, too) brush with this – black widow spider. With an effort, he got his feet back under him – and resumed getting the heck out of there. "I will say nothing. My word on it. Goodbye." With a sense of leaving Hell to its' inhabitants, he got out of the door, and out of the way.

Erik watched just long enough to ensure that Raoul closed the door behind him. Turning the key so that they could be alone – he picked up the box he had set down as he emerged from the mirror. "He may not want you as you are, but, I am older and wiser than he – and I DO see the real you. I like – no, I love what I see, and I – well" Momentarily out of words, he opened the box. Two rings gleamed inside. "I just hope I got the size right."

Christine looked in astonishment at symbols she had not seen since she was a girl. "Where did you get those?"

"I made them. I also found a Gooi – well, Nadir actually found him – but he will be here tomorrow night."

Christine looked at him in awe. "Are you sure you're not Odin? Because you have worked a miracle just finding a Gooi in France. Yes, I will stand under the hammer with you – I've been waiting for weeks for you to ask me." Then she looked at the corpse at their feet, making a face. "Providing I'm not arrested for murder by then."

Reminded of the (non)existence of Buquet, Erik grinned. "Don't worry, love, I can get rid of the evidence – they can't convict you without a body. Besides, it was self-defense. You just sweep up the broken china, after all, you don't want to emulate Carlotta's reputation, do you?"

_(A/N – You are cordially invited to the wedding in the next chapter, Viking dress is optional. Please Read and Review)_


	17. Chapter 17 – Mine To Hold

**Chapter 17 – Mine To Hold**

_(A/N - I am trying to be as Asatru here as possible, but since I was NOT raised in this faith, let's just say that I did as much research as I could.)_

The next evening – patrons of the Opera House observed a large tent in the Conservatory gardens with some bemusement. Some of the more curious ones inquired, only to be told that the central fountain was in need of repair. This was not correct, but since Erik had given M. Lefevre STRICT instructions that no-one was allowed in the conservatory grounds tonight except for Christine, Nadir, Madame Giry, Meg, and Karl Von Tork (and himself – but he didn't need to add THAT name to the list - he had his own way there), on pain of unspecified mayhem happening to the current production, M. Lefevre had stationed two pairs of his heftiest footmen at the entrances, and made sure that they knew it was worth their job to let anyone else through – nobody could go out to prove differently.

Nadir was sent on a mission to scour the wine shops until he found two large bottles of Mead – which took more than a few hours (Nadir was thankful he didn't have to add in time for more rehearsals – or he'd never get through in time for the ceremony. Fortunately the Gooi had brought his own ceremonial hammer – or Erik would have had him hunting out one of those, too. And he was sure that the prop department would probably never miss the drinking horn that Erik had picked out, since the current generation of Frenchmen had little love for Wagner's productions.)

After the performance, Christine ran for her dressing room – where Erik had left one final surprise for her. He had prevailed upon the seamstress to create a complete traditional Viking Woman's dress – all in white fabric. He had come up with brooches in silver, to hold the outfit in place – with centerpieces of amber the exact red-gold color of her hair. (The amber represents the Tears of Freya – the traditional Goddess of Love and Fertility.) With the help of Meg (although she frequently had to tell Meg how the Overdress was supposed to be worn -) she was soon ready to go to the Conservatory. Pulling a matching white cloak over her outfit, she spread her unbound hair around her shoulders – and nodded as Meg grabbed the hairbrush and tucked it into her reticule.

"Come, Meg – if you're sure you want to see this. I promise you, Erik is nowhere as scary as the rumors paint him."

Meg still was not sure how to reconcile the Phantom of the rumors and Christine's beloved, but – this was her best friend getting married here – she would NOT ruin it – and she was not going to miss THIS ceremony!

Out in the tent, the men were already there and waiting. The Priest had already blessed the space inside the tent to make it sacred – and left a space in the top of the tent for the bright (full) moon light to shine in. There were braziers to give light on the late spring/early summer flowers, and there were plenty of those; Lily Of the Valley, Tulips, Iris, Daffodils, Magnolias, Spirea, Peonies, Roses, and Lilacs all bloomed in a rainbow of colors and pleasant scents around them. Since the fountain in the center was the center of multiple flowerbeds shaped in a star pattern – it would have been superfluous to have carried a bouquet.

Besides, Christine liked her flowers better still growing, and Erik knew this well. This was one of the reasons that – when Karl had explained that an Asatru ceremony generally was – weather permitting – held outside, it had been Erik's idea to use the center of the Conservatory grounds. Besides – with the fountain in the center already, they already had three of the four basic elements present – all that was needed was a torch to represent fire!

As the two women met Madame Giry in the corridor, who had agreed to stand in for Christine's deceased father – having been the only one besides Christine who had ever even MET the man – Madame looked over her two girls, who were girls no longer. "Christine, you look radiant – let me ask you one more time – are you sure that this is what you wish? Erik can be very hard to live with, and that temper can scare even grown men silly -"

Christine smiled indulgently – then said, very seriously, "I was taught by my father before he died what not to do around a berserker – I am not afraid. I have loved that man my whole life and we will get along, just as long as I don't start singing flat! Don't worry so much."

"A berserker? What is –"

"It's a long and involved story. Can we talk about this another day? I'll tell you all about berserkers LATER! Now, we have a hand-fasting to go to!"

Madame actually unbent enough to chuckle, "So eager – Alright, let us go."

As they reached the tent-flap, the Gooi had just finished laying out what he would he need for the ceremony, including tucking a large, decorated hammer into his belt.

Nadir was still staring at the hammer, unable to fathom what hammers and swords (or daggers) had to do with marriage, when the tent-flap rustled and the three women appeared in the opening.

"Ah, there you are," said the Priest, affably. "Now we can get started. Erik, are you sure you want to keep your mask on for the ceremony? I truly will not mind if you remove it." He had gotten a look at the unmasked version earlier, but only for a moment, during his initial interview with the couple down in Erik's place.

"Others may – No, I shall stay as I am." While Erik had not donned Asatru garb – tunics just were not for him – he had worn a shirt of material to match Christine's, but in the same red-gold hue as her amber. Rather than his usual black – his pants were a darker shade of brown, and his vest and neck-cloth were of a deep, rich, green.

Karl was too smart to insist – although he really wanted a longer look. Instead, he indicated a chair to Christine, who carefully and ceremoniously sat down in it. One would have thought her a queen ascending her throne by the care she took.

Karl turned to his "audience", and said, "Before we truly start the ceremony, I think it best that I say a few words about how this ceremony works, since only the bride was raised Asatru and has an idea what to expect. /Although I have high hopes of converting the groom to our way./ This ceremony comes down to us from the days before Christianity existed. We believe the hammer to be a symbol of protection, since it is the preferred weapon not only of many of our traditional warriors of old, but also of Thor, the favored son of Odin the Allfather. It is also a symbol of prosperity and fertility for the household. The rest, I will explain as we go along."

"It is part of our ways for each couple to have someone to attest to their courage and good deeds. Nadir Khan, you know this man best, can you say a few words on this subject?"

Nadir had already been warned that this would happen, and rose from his chair. "When we were in Persia, his influence was the only thing that kept several dozen workers from being slaughtered by the Shah, after the palace that the Shah had commissioned was finished. He bargained to let them go home, risking his own life to do so. He nearly lost it."

"And Christine, who speaks for you?" Meg shot to her feet, almost colliding with Madame Giry, who was doing the same. "Young lady, perhaps you should go first?"

"When we were 14, she helped me escape from a murdering thief. You remember, Mama, the day that the under-gardener was found dead in the gardens." Madame Giry's lips tightened, but she nodded, remembering.

"And you, Madame?"

"I was most remembering the day I had to tell her that she was all alone in the world. I was only supposed to be watching her while her parents went to dinner, but – they died that night. I told her, and her response was "Will you see that I get my father's dagger, please, if I have that, I can make my own way." Even at seven, she was confident in herself, and her ability to tend herself. I couldn't let such spirit die on the streets, so I took her in. I never regretted it."

"And, Madame, in the place of her father, do you yield your care of her to this man – to care for her and cherish her until the Allfather calls one of them home to him?"

Madame had already considered this question, seriously. "I – yes. Yes, since she wants this so much, she has to have confidence in her link to him. I must trust that she knows his personality in ways I do not."

"Erik Y'Phoenix" (the Gooi and he had discussed a last name, since Erik had never known his – and this is what Erik had come up with), do you swear to care for and help to protect this woman from all adversity, with all your will and strength, cleaving only to her, until the Allfather calls one of you home?"

"I will." And Erik held out the ring he had custom made to his – Finally! His! – Christine, " I give her this as the Symbol and reminder of this oath."

"Christine Daae, do you swear to care for and help to succor this man from all adversity, cleaving only to him, with all your will and strength, until the Allfather calls one of you home?"

"I will. I give him this Symbol and reminder of this oath." And Christine extended the ring that Erik had crafted just a few days ago.

At this point, Karl pulled the hammer from out of his belt, first touching Erik – lightly – on both shoulders, and then lowered the hammer into Christine's lap – as a blessing on the two people in front of him. He then picked up the key ring – handing it to Erik, who then presented them ceremonially to Christine, as a symbol of his handing over the care of his home and finances.

Christine then handed her father's dagger over as a symbol that she trusted Erik to protect her – Privately Erik vowed to get her another dagger – or give that one back, for those times when he needed to be elsewhere, but he was not going to say so out loud right now!

Then the Gooi poured mead into the drinking horn, and both the couple had a mouthful, and then a bit of bread as a symbolic first meal together. As a last symbolic link – the Priest tied Erik's left wrist to Christine's right, pronouncing them a couple, and presenting them with a marriage license – Erik also got the equivalent of a birth certificate in his new name. Since France had already accepted that a priest of any faith could marry a couple, as long as it was then ratified through the French legal system, this was completely binding.

Then came the part that everybody was familiar with in just about any culture, the kissing of the bride. Nadir took long enough at it to almost have Erik fuming, but – then – that was just like Nadir! Then the rest of the mead was shared by the wedding guests, with the last few swallows poured on the ground as another invocation to the Gods, and in thanks for the blessings to date, with hopes for the future. It was done. They were now married by France's laws as well as in Sweden. Erik had arranged for an outdoor picnic feast, after which the couple would retreat to Erik's house for the rest of the night.

_(A/N – Whew – that was a job and a half – hope you enjoyed this peek into a different kind of wedding! Please Read And Review.)_


	18. Chapter 18 - Epilogue

**Chapter 18 – Epilogue**

_(A/N – Before winding this up –I must thank all those who have reviewed, favorited, or followed my efforts. In particular,(but in no particular order) Anna, Annabelle 4.0,anifreakazoid, AkatsukiMercy1515, A Resident Ghost, BroadwayLover14, Cario, CaraMierfert, Christine,Partello,7, Dkk5, DragonladywAguna, EscapingTheirReality, ForensicPhantom, Gonzonimbus, GuitarGirl97, Heinz-Lee, Hell's Worst Nightmare, IndigoMona, Helikesitheymikey, KitKat, Kohaku The Otaku, Kumon5, LadyLunaTwilight, Loki's Daughter, LittlePixieMe, MyraValhallah, Million, The Newbie Phan, MimiPeacock, The Book PhanGirl, The Phantom Of The Labyrinth, PrincessKianna,RKandee13, SaVrAiNoir, ShinobiTwin05, Shattered Heart And Soul, Savor-Each-Sensation, Princess of Lothlorien, Sassy Angel Of Music, Twilight Girl80, and, UntameableDragon144. Truthfully, I should have done so months ago, but, I was dealing with 2 financial crises, 1 personal (family) crisis, and a health condition that wound up with me making a rather financially expensive pilgrimage to Mayo Clinic (no, it's not immediately life-threatening (as long as I behave myself, anyway), yes, it is treatable, and yes, I __am too__ following the physician's orders), not to mention my workplace is chronically understaffed, so I was a little busy. Enough about me, that's not what everyone tuned in for anyway – Let's go on and give our couple their HEA ending, After that, if any of you feel so inclined, I started a new story on this thread, __**Cosmic Muddling – Er – Meddling!**__ Dealing with the events between the Final Lair and "Beneath A Moonless Sky", I am going to try to explore what gave Christine (the scaredy-cat version) the courage to go back through the streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood, not to mention a dark, mostly unlit set of cellars and passages – many of them in disrepair – and __none__ of them clean, to find and interact with a man who was definitely not acting altogether sane the last time she saw him. Meanwhile, let's get back to our favorite couple –)_

About two months after the wedding, Christine came up to Erik, looking flustered but very pretty for all of that. "Darling, just how much wood do you have in storage right now?"

"Wood is not a problem, but what do you need it for? Kindling, building, or what?"

"Building – but – while this is a vital project, it isn't an urgent one."

"My Christine, what is it you need me to build? Just say it, and it shall be done." Erik was so anxious to keep his new wife happy that if she shad said "get me a slice of the moon," he would have started for a ladder.

"Can you put up a fence between us and the water, about three feet high, strong enough to withstand someone about my weight trying to get over it without collapsing?"

Erik was confused. "You wish to try diving into the lake? There are other structures that will work better for that."

Christine grinned at him. "No, love, I am trying to child-proof our living space before the child I am carrying comes to join us."

"We could –" At which point Christine's real meaning penetrated, and Erik went as paper-white as his mask, swaying on his feet. "You –are – are –"

"Pregnant." Christine used the Swedish word, since most polite French society did not even accept that the state existed, much less the word, which Christine thought a little ridiculous.

It was a nightmare pregnancy. Oh, not for Christine, for Erik. He was secretly terrified that any child would have his face as well as his peculiar gifts, but the one time he tried to explain, Christine merely said, "Then we will move where there are Asatru – America probably, so he or she does not get ostracized by stupid people. Besides, both your father and mother looked normal, you said. I firmly feel that it was something your mother did wrong."

All Erik seemed able to do was watch and worry. By the time Gustave came to join the family, Erik had lost a good 15 pounds, and all the songs he had attempted to write just never got finished. But Gustave was downright beautiful, and not so much as a birthmark marred that delicate skin. Erik finally started the remodeling project with such enthusiasm that he had it done in two days. That is, after he was revived by a grinning Nadir from fainting dead away.

Five years since the wedding in the garden, many things had changed in that time. Meg Giry was no longer dancing with the Opera Populaire, she had met a Baron, and, to everyone's surprise, given up a promising career in dance to become a Baroness. Madame Giry was recently retired to the Baron's country estate to help out with Meg, who was in the sixth month of a difficult pregnancy. Christine suspected that Madame really just wanted to be nearby in case something unexpected happened. The Daroga, although Erik kept occasionally pestering him about continuing his singing career, had gone back to his life of leisure, and as for Christine? When she wasn't onstage, she was kept busy in the lair, mostly looking after Gustave, who was an explorer from the time he could crawl. He was also starting to show signs of musical talent to rival a doting Erik's best efforts.

But as a living space, this lair was going to be getting crowded soon. Christine knew, just by the way she was feeling, that she was pregnant again. Perhaps she could talk Erik into moving to America – that was where Karl had moved to, and he had written that there was a thriving Asatru community – located in a state called Minnesota. She would start working on it tonight, after she told Erik he was going to be a father, again. With a grin, she went to start a special dinner.

_(Well, that was fun – come join me, __if__ you choose, for some Cosmic Muddling – Er – Meddling! I'll be just down the thread a ways, dealing with instilling a backbone in a most reluctant patient. Meanwhile, Please Read And Review.)_


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